


Your Perfect Offering

by CaitlinFairchild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Time, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Psychological Trauma, Rape Recovery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-04 00:50:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5313785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/pseuds/CaitlinFairchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock,” John continues, careful and quiet. “I’ve seen your back. I know you were hurt. I don’t want to pry, I don’t want to cause you discomfort but...I’m starting to think something else happened there. In Serbia.”</p><p>Sherlock rolls away and sits up on the edge of the bed, his back to John.</p><p>“A great many things happened in Serbia,” he says, flat and remote. “None of them were pleasant.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StillTheAddict](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StillTheAddict/gifts).



> This is the raffle fic, won by tumblr user addictedstilltheaddict!
> 
> 5000 words somehow blew up to over 40k. This is how it goes, sometimes.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> This fic takes place in the same universe as one of my earlier fics, [Landscape With The Fall of Icarus](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1144315/), and can be seen as a 'sequel' of sorts, though knowledge of the events in that fic is not at all necessary for this one. 
> 
> IMPORTANT: This story is, essentially, a rape recovery fic. There is an in depth, though not explicit discussion of the actual incident, in chapter 3. The focus here is on John and Sherlock working on establishing a trusting physical relationship in the aftermath of deeply buried trauma.
> 
> I completely understand if this is not everyone's cup of tea, and if it's not yours swing back around for the next story, no hard feelings whatsoever.
> 
> Come follow me on Tumblr if you like:
> 
> [consultingcaitlin](http://consultingcaitlin.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ...or hit me up at CaitlinFairchild1976@gmail.com.  
>    
> A million thanks to everyone for reading.
    
    
    You can add up the parts                                                                                                                 
    but you won't have the sum 
    You can strike up the march, 
    there is no drum 
    Every heart, every heart 
    to love will come 
    but like a refugee. 
    
    Ring the bells that still can ring 
    Forget your perfect offering 
    There is a crack, a crack in everything 
    That's how the light gets in. 
    
    --”Anthem,” Leonard Cohen

This time, Moriarty is completely, undeniably, _blessedly_ dead. 

John is absolutely certain of it. 

Less than twelve hours ago, he and Sherlock saw his broken, disfigured body (minus several large, rather important chunks) sprawled gracelessly out upon a derelict tarmac, saw the grey matter trickling out of a gaping, fist-sized hole in his skull, saw his wide-open brown eyes grown sunken and clouded in death.

(Taking no chances, John had dropped to his knees, fingers seeking out a carotid pulse his common sense told him he would not find. All he had gotten, in the end, was the slimy clotted gore of Moriarty’s blood and cerebrospinal fluid all over his hands for the trouble.)

Yes, Moriarty is dead for real this time, and thanks to the machinations of a certain minor government functionary, Sherlock’s name has been officially cleared of all wrongdoing. The papers, of course, have pivoted in another complete 180-degree turn overnight, lauding him as the hero of the hour, the saviour of the United Kingdom.

Sherlock and John made it through the ordeal alive and relatively unscathed. Moriarty is dead, his network shredded, the threat hanging over them neutralised at last. Their happy ending has been secured. All is well.

Except for one, last, not-so-minor task in front of John Watson.

John has just one final set of affairs to see to before this entire nightmare can be declared fully over, put behind them, placed firmly in the past forever and for good.

He and Sherlock currently sit in a windowless, nondescript conference room in a windowless, nondescript building somewhere in the City. John is seated at the enormous, battleship-grey conference table; in front of him a paper cup of tea sits cooling and untouched next to a pen and a single sheet of A4 paper. Sherlock sits, watching him closely, protectively, from two chairs away-- far enough away to afford John some personal space yet close enough to provide a calming, supportive presence.

The final problem, of course, is Mary.

Barring a few minor bumps and bruises, Mary is alive and well and currently locked away in a cell in this same building, somewhere several floors beneath their feet. 

To John’s utter surprise, she made good on her end of her bargain with Mycroft, helping them bring down Moriarty in exchange for a new, safe, protected life. 

A life she doesn’t deserve. Not by any system of measure. But in the end, a deal is a deal, and Mycroft will keep to his end of the agreement, and Mary will have her freedom.

The only question for John to answer, now, is what’s to become of the child still living in the belly of his estranged wife-in-name-only.

It had only taken a five-second swab to the inside of John’s cheek to make plain what everyone involved already knew to be true.

So the question, then, is this:

“You can still keep her,” Mycroft murmurs from where he is hovering, at the far end of the shadowed room, near the closed door. “Mary has agreed to whatever terms you state. We can bury this information, and you can be her legal father, and she will not interfere. If that is what you wish.”

John stares at the cup of tea in front of him; after a protracted moment of consideration, he lifts it to his lips and swallows. It’s long gone stone cold, and he realises he has no idea how long he’s been just sitting here, his mind a blank fog of trauma and exhaustion.

He looks up at Mycroft, slowly, blearily, as if surfacing from a great depth.

“Will she be safe with Mary?”

Mycroft nods. “They’ll be in witness protection. A small town in the American Midwest. She’ll be safe as long as Ms. Morstan abides by the terms to which she’s agreed. “

“Small town America.” John laughs without a shred of mirth. “And you think she’ll actually be capable of living that life?”

“The conditions have been set,” Mycroft replies, “and she has agreed to abide by them. If she doesn’t, well. Sadly, my control doesn’t extend that far. And neither does yours. We do what we can, Doctor Watson.”

John sighs, nods, knowing his words are the truth. 

That knowledge doesn’t change a thing, not really.

“I can’t…” He trails off, scrubs a hand over tired eyes, begins again. “If she was my biological child, maybe I would. But as it stands, I need to be out of this nightmare. And--” he takes another sip of tea to moisten his parched mouth. “No matter what Mary’s done, I can’t take her child from her. I just can’t do that.”

He looks up at Sherlock in silent entreaty.

Sherlock’s gaze is warm and steady as he gives John a tiny nod of agreement, their communication needing no words whatsoever, and John knows his choice has already been made. 

He picks up the pen on the table in front of him, scribbles a signature at the bottom of the page. He drops the pen and sighs, a sound of bone-deep weariness as he pushes the chair away from the table and stands, his hips and spine creaking in protest.

He feels a million years old. He feels _embalmed_.

“Is there anything else?” he asks Mycroft.

“I will take care of everything,” Mycroft replies. “Get some rest. You’ve earned it. Both of you.”

John nods, then turns to Sherlock.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

“Of course,” Sherlock says as he rises, taking his leave with a single curt nod to his brother before placing a large steady hand on the small of John’s back, guiding him out the door and taking him back home to Baker Street.

***

That first night, John is in an undeniable state of shock, a fugue of confusion and loss, his memory and perception gone thick and grey around the edges.

At the foot of the stairs that lead up to his room, the room where he’s lived ever since the night Mary shot Sherlock (he never went back to Mary, to the townhouse, could not stand to be in the same room with her alone for five minutes, even in the weeklong “reconciliation” between that terrible Christmas and worse New Years) John hesitates, his feet pausing for just half a moment in indecision, or doubt, or maybe just an instinctive need to not be alone right now, left with only the dark shadows of his own grief to keep him company.

Sherlock looks closely at him, sees his indecision written plain on his tired face. Without a word spoken or a moment’s extra deliberation, he steers into him into his bedroom instead.

“I don’t want to impose--” John begins, halfheartedly.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock says dismissively, guiding him down onto the edge of his bed with a hand on his shoulder, then bending to tug off his shoes. The caring yet efficient way he attends to the task tells John nothing about this is sexual, or even particularly romantic; it is instead borne from Sherlock’s need to keep John close, watch over him, care for him and keep him from harm as best he can on this difficult night.

(Underneath the hazy fog that makes it so hard to concentrate, John marvels again at how changed a man Sherlock is, and then wonders if he is really so different, or if the events of the past three years simply wore away at the cold uncaring façade until the true man underneath finally was able to emerge. He doesn’t really know the answer, and is starting to suspect that perhaps, in the end he never will.)

“Lie down,” Sherlock directs him. John complies, folding his hands over his abdomen as he stares, unblinking, at the ceiling. Sherlock rises to toe off his own lace-up oxfords, shrugging out of his suit jacket and hanging it up carefully in the open armoire before going over to the other side of the bed and stretching out carefully, still fully dressed and on top of the striped coverlet.

Sherlock watches John for what feels like hours. John feels his gaze but doesn’t look at him, eyes fixed resolutely on the ceiling.

Neither one of them are even close to sleep.

After some time passes the hazy, numbing fog begins to recede a bit, enough to allow John to begin to catalogue the jumble of confusing feelings in his head and heart.

Out of everything, he makes one important discovery.

“I’m not sad,” he finally says quietly into the darkness.

Sherlock doesn’t answer right away.

John turns his head just slightly. Even in the barely-there glow of the streetlamps, he can see the fringe of Sherlock’s dark lashes, the pale edges of his sharp cheekbones, the slight bob of his throat as he swallows once, twice, composing his thoughts.

“I’m not _sad_ ,” he repeats, with just a touch of emphasis on the last word.

“How do you feel, then?” Sherlock asks.

“I don’t know,’ John replies, then shakes his head just a bit. “I don’t really...I don’t know.”

“You’re in shock,” Sherlock says. “Understandably so.”

“Maybe,” John says. “I...maybe.”

For several more minutes they lay side by side in the dark silence, with the stillness of the room punctuated only by the muted growl of the occasional van trundling down Baker Street.

“I have regrets,” John murmurs. “So many regrets. I wish...I wish a lot of things had happened differently.” 

“I know.” Sherlock’s voice is so low it’s almost subsonic. “I do, too.”

“But I’m not sad,” John says one last time, in an oddly defiant whisper, as if daring Sherlock to contradict him. 

“Nor am I,” Sherlock replies, and there’s a gentleness in his voice, an understanding that makes the tight, strangling knot inside John’s chest loosen just a little, makes breathing just a bit easier.

He turns his head to look at Sherlock. “Does that make us bad people?”

“I don’t think so,” Sherlock replies. “There may be other reason we are bad people, to be honest, but no, I don’t think this is one of them.”

John makes a low, choked noise that sounds something like a laugh.

“That is true,” he allows. 

The pair lapse back into quiet, but the silence now is just a bit less strained, the quiet between them made more intimate by the mutual confession.

Emboldened by the moment and the darkness, John reaches out, brushes Sherlock’s wrist with the backs of his fingers. His skin is warm and dry, the hairs sparse and silky soft.

Such a simple touch, just a gesture of sincere affection. It shouldn’t affect John the way it does, sparks of electricity traveling up his fingers, lighting up something private and secret in his brain.

But it does. Oh, how it does.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

The words cannot help but conjure up older, not-quite-healed wounds. There’s nothing to be done about that. John knows that. It happens, it will continue to happen. It is part of who they are, now.

Sherlock is silent for a moment, and John knows his thoughts are running in a similar vein.

“You’re welcome,” is what he finally says in reply.

The tightness inside of him somewhat relieved, his shoulders and neck more relaxed, John suddenly feels profoundly tired, like he could sleep for an entire week straight. He turns to his side, facing Sherlock, adjusting the pillow and curling his knees into a fetal position, making a tiny, almost involuntary sigh.

“G’night, Sherlock,” he murmurs.

“Good night, John,” Sherlock replies, but his voice already sounds far away as John slips into a heavy black sleep.

***

Late the next morning, John is muzzily contemplating his second cup of coffee and Sherlock is poring over maps of Argentina and muttering to himself in Spanish for reasons unknowable to anyone but himself when the trill of a ringing phone interrupts the peace.

Sherlock glances at the mobile next to his elbow. 

“Lestrade,” he mutters, and then to John’s considerable surprise, he picks up his phone and answers.

In the old days, Sherlock would have glanced at his phone briefly, made a face and then let Greg’s first call go directly to voicemail. If it’s anything above a four, he will call back between two and four more times, and if it’s above a six he will arrive at Baker Street in person within the hour.

But today, Sherlock picks up the phone and takes the call.

“Better be good,” he sighs in lieu of a polite greeting, but the tone of indifference is a sham, and John can hear the barely-restrained eagerness underneath. 

He listens for a minute. 

“Text me the address,” he says in reply, “and we’ll be along shortly.” He rings off, pockets the phone, as he looks up at John with a diffident, almost shy grin.

“Male victim, late fifties, unusual rash on the feet. A possible injection site indicates it may have been poison. Barely a five, but, well.” Sherlock looks down, then up again, his expression almost bashful. (If he were anyone else, John would almost call it flirtatious.) ”I would certainly appreciate your professional opinion. If you’re so inclined, of course.”

John is no deductive genius, to be sure, but in the current scenario he immediately understands two important things. 

One: this is the first normal case (well, “normal” being a relative term) Sherlock’s been asked to take after his exoneration in the papers. Lestrade may truly need his assistance, but he is undoubtedly also trying to be a friend and help Sherlock publicly re-establish his _bona fides_ after the recent beating has name has taken. 

Two: Sherlock wants something to keep John’s mind from dwelling on the events of the very recent past, and as with so many of Sherlock’s day-to-day dilemmas, he’s figuring a bit of murder might be just the ticket.

The thing is, John feels he may well be right.

“Coming?” Sherlock asks, tone just a bit overly casual as he stands in the kitchen doorway, winding his scarf around the impossibly long column of his neck.

John counts to ten before looking up from his long-cold cup of tea. Wouldn’t do to look too eager, after all.

“I’m not…” John looks down at his clothes, the same clothes he had slept in the night previous. “I really need to take a shower.”

“That’s fine,” Sherlock says mildly. “The victim won’t be any less deceased if we get there twenty minutes later than planned.”

“I…” John pauses, considers, decides to make Sherlock work just a little for it. “If you need my assistance.”

“You’re indispensable to me.” The words ring in the air with an unexpected intensity, making John look up sharply at Sherlock despite himself. Sherlock goes stock still, as if he surprised himself with his vehemence. John thinks he can almost see the pale pink flush of embarrassment creeping up past the collar of his criminally snug slate-blue shirt.

Something twists in John’s heart, hard.

“Well, then,” John says. His tone is carefully neutral, but he knows the look on his face is undoubtedly giving far too much away. “If that’s the case, how could I possibly say no?”

***

Very late that evening they return to Baker Street, quietly hanging their coats on two neighboring hooks next to the door before they climb the stairs. They are tired but somehow deeply, primally satisfied. both of them full to the brim with Indian food and the satisfaction of a (admittedly not-very-difficult) case solved--and also, John thinks fleetingly to himself, the indescribable, incandescent relief of finally getting back a tiny shred of something like they used to be.

And that feeling of rightness, of togetherness, seems to supersede any need for conversation. They quietly mount the seventeen steps, both carefully avoiding the creaky fifth riser out of an ingrained habit that’s grown into a reflex. Sherlock unlocks the door to their flat.

John pauses briefly in the front hallway, suddenly (not suddenly, not really) terribly loathe to let this lovely feeling slip away.

“Do you…” John begins, then presses his lips together, begins to turn away, self-conscious, closing himself off from Sherlock before he even begins.

Sherlock looks at him, head tilted, unspoken question forming in his eyes. Half a moment later his eyes widen in understanding, and the edges of his mouth soften just the barest fraction.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, and takes hold of his upper arm, firm but not rough, steadying, supporting. “I don’t mind at all. I’d rather. Not that you need looking after, but--I’d rather, in fact.”

John looks up at him. Sherlock’s eyes are warm and tender, and the depth of vulnerability he sees there makes him feel dizzy, almost vertiginous, like standing at the top of a very tall building with no guardrail to stop you from falling. 

Or jumping.

The intensity is disorienting, overwhelming, and John looks away, nods briskly. “That’s settled, then,” he says, in a casual tone that rings utterly false even to his own ears.

No more is said about it. Sherlock merely nods, ducks into his bedroom, leaves John to follow of his own volition.

He does so, without hesitation. Of course he does.

***

John sleeps in Sherlock’s bed, without comment or question or calling attention to it in any way, for the next eleven nights.

He is careful to keep to his own side of the bed, a body’s width of space always between him and Sherlock, even in sleep.

The reasons for the carefully maintained distance seem so important, at first.

It’s not about Not Being Gay. John’s gotten over that bit of fiction ages ago, at least in the privacy of his own heart. His feelings for Sherlock are deep and complicated and utterly romantic.

John’s spent his life in the closet, spent his life being somewhat less than brave about his true self, but he would change that in a heartbeat for Sherlock Holmes. He would. He knows that, now, and can only hope that when the moment is finally right, he’s not too late.

But at this moment, the bridge between them is a damaged, oft-repaired, jury-rigged tenuous thing. And after the events of the past few months, neither one of them are in a place to embark on anything complicated or dangerous right now. That’s what John tells himself.

It’s about Not Getting Hurt Again. It’s about Not Risking Their Friendship, and it’s about Sherlock Not Feeling Things That Way.

Except the last one...well, that isn’t looking to be strictly true these days. He sees how Sherlock looks at him, sad and soft-eyed when he thinks no one is looking. He sees how careful Sherlock is now, how tender, his usual fussing and dramatics and name calling lacking even a hint of bite where John is concerned. He calls John an idiot with a smile in his voice and affection in his eyes.

And the first two-- with every moment that passes, John finds they’re mattering less and less. Not too long ago, John privately swore he’d never let himself be that vulnerable ever again, that he’d never hand Sherlock the keys to his heart. Now, though...now, sometimes, it almost seems worth the risk, just to find out. Just to know if they actually would have some kind of a chance at something real and true.

As the days and nights go on and Sherlock is there, right there with him, keeping something that almost looks like a normal human sleep schedule just in order to put on pyjamas and lie down in bed next to him, looking at him with something like love in his eyes…

It begins to almost seem worth the risk.

So in short, John sees. Of course he does. And as the first week in Sherlock’s bed rounds the corner into the second and neither of them makes any move to end this ostensibly temporary arrangement, John struggles to remember exactly why that distance between their bodies had been so bloody important in the first place.

***

On the twelfth morning, John wakes early to a still-deeply asleep Sherlock sprawled out next to him, one arm flung across the safe zone between them, his hair a riot, his full lips parted as he snores just ever so slightly.

He looks... _precious_ , John thinks, wrinkling his nose a bit at his own florid adjective but unable to find another nearly as fitting. Sherlock in slumber is young and vulnerable and defenseless in a way he could never be when awake, and John suddenly sees the level of trust and intimacy Sherlock is giving him by allowing himself to be seen like this.

He suddenly, viscerally understands that he doesn’t ever want to wake up anywhere else, not ever again in his life.

This epiphany, huge and earthshaking though it may be, doesn’t lessen his need for a piss, however.

He rises, slips out of bed as quietly as he is able, uses the loo and brushes the morning funk out of his mouth. He spits, rinses, stares blearily at the creased, somewhat worn-looking man staring back from the mirror.

“So what should I do about it?” he asks his reflection.

His reflection has no helpful advice to offer.

John straightens his shoulders, gives a curt nod to the tired man in the mirror, and returns to bed, sliding between the still-warm covers.

Sherlock shifts slightly, then groans minutely and rolls to his side, facing John. John watches him sleep for several long minutes. It’s unreasonable, he thinks, that any human being should look like this-- long dark eyelashes against palest flesh, a face like a sleeping angel, like a living breathing seraphim lifted straight from some third-rate Italian Renaissance painting.

 _Honestly,_ John thinks, _I never had a fighting chance of NOT falling madly in love with him._

It’s just criminally unfair. 

At some point in these ruminations, Sherlock has begun to stir under the intense, laser-like scrutiny. He opens one eye, clear and deep as the Aegean Sea--again, just fucking _unfair-_ -and gazes sleepily at John.

“What?” he mumbles, eloquently.

John smiles, soft and tender and hopeful and a bit sad underneath, sad for all the time they’ve stupidly, stupidly wasted. 

That’s done now. Almost as an afterthought, he notices that somehow he’s not anxious at all. 

He’s ready.

“I’m an idiot,” is all he says, quietly, then leans forward, slips a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, and kisses him.

Sherlock kisses John back and he’s slow, careful, clearly inexperienced but without an iota of hesitation. His lips are soft and sleep-warm, his breath morning-sour, and it’s perfect in a real, imperfect human way.

After a few blissful moments of their mouths pressing clumsily together, Sherlock makes a belated deduction, pulls back, suddenly self-conscious. “I must taste terrible,” he says.

“I don’t care,” John says truthfully.

“Give me thirty seconds,” Sherlock says. “Even the playing field.”

John huffs a breath of laughter and nods, grinning as takes his hand away from Sherlock’s neck.

“I’m counting,” he replies.

Sherlock untangles himself from the sheets and rises. John can’t help but notice, with a shock of surprised arousal flooding his nervous system, that his erection is plainly visible, tenting the fabric of his loose pyjama bottoms as he clambers out of bed and ducks into the loo.

 _So that’s one question answered_ , he thinks, a warm, almost giddy feeling in his stomach.

The toilet flushes, water runs in the sink, and then Sherlock returns, slipping back into bed. He’s still disheveled and morning bleary, his hair a frizzy mop of riotous curls that would befit the image of any mad scientist, the scruff of his beard surprisingly ginger in the morning sunlight. There’s a tiny whitish spot of toothpaste in the corner of his mouth that he missed in his haste to get back to bed.

He’s altogether the loveliest sight John has ever seen.

“Hey,” John murmurs, warm and low.

Sherlock’s eyes flick up to meet his, self consciousness apparent in the way he can’t quite look at him directly, the way his teeth dig into his lip, the touch of pink flush staining his pale cheeks. There’s nothing else for it, John thinks, except to kiss him again.

So he does.

They kiss slowly, almost carefully, exploring the boundaries of this new interaction. Sherlock seems--not hesitant, not uncertain, but inexpert, perhaps, a bit unsure of how to proceed. John takes the lead without hesitation, gently nipping and pulling at his full lower lip, dipping into his open mouth, seeking out his wet tongue with his own.

Their hands tangle in each other’s hair, fingers tracing along the backs of necks and across shoulders but no lower. Their bodies are still carefully, deliberately separate, and John is fine with that, well aware of how easily all this could overwhelm both of them. They have time, time enough for everything at last, and this singular new expression of physicality seems like far more than enough to deal with at the moment.

John breaks away, panting a bit, presses his lips to Sherlock’s stubbled cheek, suddenly feeling the need to both reassure and be reassured.

“Is this all right?” he asks, simply, directly.

Sherlock nods. “Yes,” he answers, just as simply, and finds John’s mouth again with his own to answer the question more emphatically.

They kiss and kiss, lying on their sides facing each other as morning melts away towards the afternoon, their hands moving across shoulders and backs, not yet quite daring to venture underneath clothing. After what feels like an age, John hooks a leg around Sherlock’s longer ones, drawing him closer, sighing into his mouth as they finally allow their bodies to press more fully against each other. With a jolt, John feels how both of them are undeniably aroused, John hard against his stomach as Sherlock’s erection pushes against his hip.

Emboldened by the evidence of Sherlock’s desire, John presses small kisses to the sharp edge of his jaw, down the line of his throat, strokes his torso through the thin material of this worn sleep tee. His fingers slip under the thin cotton knit, press into the warm skin of Sherlock’s flanks.

At the touch of fingers to bare flesh, Sherlock’s breathing stops and he goes very, very still under John’s hands.

John senses the change immediately. His gently questing fingers still.

“Is this…” John exhales against his neck. “Is this too much for you?”

Sherlock nods, just barely, and the way they are pressed together John can feel his heart hammering away, beating wildly against his slender ribcage. He takes his hands away from Sherlock’s body and pulls back, putting a bit of space in between them.

Sherlock rolls onto his back, looks at the ceiling. “It’s just,” he begins, and John thinks his deep voice sounds rough, strained, almost as if he were about to cry. 

“You okay?” he murmurs, concerned.

Sherlock exhales. “Of course I am,” he replies, still sounding a bit shaken, not really sounding completely okay at all. “It’s just...a lot. To process.”

John hums a low affirmation, sweet and understanding. “It’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”

“Somewhat,” Sherlock admits softly.

“And you haven’t, ever,” John says.

“Have you?” Sherlock counters.

“Course I have,” John says, “after all, I was m--” 

The way Sherlock turns his head and looks at him with (rightfully) condescending disbelief, John feels an absolute moron for not catching the actual question.

“You mean with men.”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow.

“Yes,” John replies. “A long while back. But, I’m betting you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Sherlock looks a bit bashful but also a touch smug. “Of course I did.”

“That doesn’t mean…I’m not...” John hesitates a bit, fumbles for the right words. “I have no timetable here. No set expectations. I just--” He reaches out, feeling a bit uncertain, and strokes Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock stills, but doesn’t flinch. “I’m just. Shit. I’m really just happy to be here. Whatever you want. You set the pace, all right?”

Sherlock, nods, still looking anxious. “Can we just…” 

“Take it slow?” John says. “Of course we can. In fact, we absolutely should.” He tilts his head up, kisses Sherlock, a chaste press of lips. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Sherlock replies, and the words come out with a level of vehemence that takes John a bit aback. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry for. I’m the one who--”

“No,” John strokes his cheekbone with his thumb, tucks a lock of hair behind Sherlock’s ear with careful tenderness “You don’t ever have to apologise. Not ever, all right? We have time, we’ll take time. And it’s absolutely fine.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, nervous and oddly formal.

The pair are silent for a moment, the awkwardness suffusing the room, making the air between them feel palpably thicker, heavier. 

“Can we…” John begins, then cuts himself off with a short-self conscious chuckle as he rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I like being close to you,” he murmurs. "Can we just...”

“Cuddle?” Sherlock asks, and there’s a hint of a smile in his voice, yes, but no derision or mockery in it. “Yes. I like...yes. And also,” he clarifies, “the kissing. The kissing is...good.”

“Good, huh?” John says with a glint of amusement, and stretches upwards to kiss him again, with an open mouth and just the barest hint of tongue. Sherlock returns the kiss with enthusiasm.

“Kissing and cuddling,” John murmurs against his warm, pliant lips. “That’s...yeah, that’s a great place to start, I think.”

***

For three weeks, everything is nearly perfect.

In almost every way, those twenty days are as close to total happiness as John has ever known. 

To his pleased surprise, casual daily affection seems to stoke a fire in Sherlock, a hunger for touch and connection he had shut down so ruthlessly that John suspects he didn’t even know he had been starving for it all these years. 

Daily they indulge in lingering looks over tea, socked feet pressed together under the table, casual kisses pressed into Sherlock’s hair as he bends over his microscope. They watch crap telly on the sofa, Sherlock pressed up against John’s side as John strokes his fingers up and down the curve of his bicep until both of them are barely watching the programme, instead waiting for the earliest permissible moment to turn a cuddle into a leisurely snog on the sofa, John stretched out top of Sherlock, tongue in his mouth and hands in his hair, running up and down his arms, his torso, their hips slotting together, their hard cocks pressing together even through several layers of thick fabric.

But they don’t rock against each other, they don’t undress each other. John is careful to be patient, asking permission at every new touch. He stays mindful of Sherlock’s small tells, of the tensing and shallowing of his breath, backing off immediately at the first sign of discomfort.

He restrains himself, restricts himself to keeping his hands above the waist. It’s so absolutely new to John, taking things this slowly, slower than he’s ever taken things before in his life, and it turns every tiny gesture into a new frontier to explore. 

It’s sweet and slow and careful; a bit frustrating to be sure, but lovely in its own way and John enjoys every moment of it.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs as his fingers stroke over the firm swell of Sherlock’s pectorals, thumbs circling his nipple through the thin material of his buttondown shirt.

Sherlock gasps, nods.

“Need to hear you say it, love.”

“Yes,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “God, John. _Yes._ ”

“All right?” he murmurs, pressing a row of kisses over the fine expensive cotton covering the prominent line of his collarbone.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes.

“And this?” John murmurs, nimble fingers tugging the top button free from its corresponding hole.

Sherlock tenses, goes completely still.

“It’s all right, love,” John murmurs, carefully putting the button back into place.

“I’m...” Sherlock murmurs, but doesn’t continue.

John finds himself wondering what the second half of Sherlock’s sentence would be, and realises he doesn’t really know, at all. It’s an unsettling feeling.

He strokes Sherlock’s arm in silence. The frozen, anxious stillness passes, and Sherlock’s body language relaxes just a fraction.

“In time?” John finally says, low and quiet, and after three weeks in, three weeks of incredible care and patience, he hears it in his own voice, the barest shade of...concern. Worry. 

If Sherlock hears it, he doesn’t make mention. “In time,” he echoes, and wraps his hands around the sides of John’s head to bring him up for a kiss, a slow deep meeting of lips and it’s lovely, of course it is, but John can’t shake the feeling that Sherlock is deliberately distracting him from a current of something odd and worrisome underneath it all.

John wants to ask, he does. But he really, truly doesn’t know how, and a moment later he thinks (hopes) maybe he imagined that chilly, unsettling feeling.

And in the end, it really just seems so much easier to kiss and cuddle and then drift off to sleep on the sofa together, instead.

***

The problem with the not-talking-about-it approach is this: John is not an idiot.

Far from it, in fact. John is a doctor, after all, and a good one, and has seen far more in his life travels than Sherlock tends to give him credit for, experienced things that have honed his instincts to a razor sharpness.

Barring the whole Mary debacle, where he was fogged by grief and exhaustion, John’s instincts are seldom wrong--and as the days pass, John becomes increasingly certain he’s not wrong about this, either.

Things come to a head unexpectedly, late on a completely unremarkable Saturday night. 

They’re in bed after a long day of not much at all. John puttered around the flat, spending the morning engaging in some much needed tidying of the kitchen cabinets and counters before putting a new washer on the dripping tap, then in the afternoon finally unboxing the few mementos he had brought with him from the townhouse and finding a home for each item.

Sherlock solved two barely-fives from his inbox without ever even bothering to put on shoes. 

For dinner, John bakes a couple of jacket potatoes, topping them with broccoli and grated cheddar. They eat in front of the telly, polishing off a leftover half bottle of white wine before turning in for the evening.

Before this, before the two of them, Sherlock would have stayed up the entire night, dissecting mouse livers or finding something to roast with his blowtorch--seemingly desperate for anything to distract himself from the constantly swirling maelstrom of just being him, of thinking, of analysing, of processing the endless streams of data that he could never seem to disregard. 

Now, though? Now he follows John willingly to bed at eleven p.m, exchanges long leisurely kisses and murmured good nights as he curls his warm body around John’s and falls asleep, his breathing growing sonorous and deep.

Tonight, in the dark grey gloom, the kisses are slow, deep, their tongues twining together wet and messy as their bodies press tightly into one another, their cocks hard, achingly hard against each other. John is making soft, needy little noises into Sherlock’s mouth, his hands running restlessly up and down his back before sliding down to the crest of his hips, skimming across the waistband of his worn blue track bottoms.

“Sherlock, I….” John exhales roughly against his collarbone, slips his fingers in between the hem of his shirt and the elastic waist of his track bottoms. “God. I want to touch you. I want to make you feel so good, please, I--”

The warm safe feeling evaporates in an instant. Sherlock goes still, his hands around John’s back curling into tight fists.

John goes quiet as well. For a moment the only sound in the room is their breathing, then John rolls away from Sherlock, onto his back. He makes an almost noiseless sigh as he presses his head back into the mattress.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, and it comes out so small, so tiny as to border on microscopic.

“Sherlock, I…” John begins. “No. Please don’t be sorry, okay, I just--” 

He considers for a moment. Decides to be brave, takes a fortifying breath, and jumps in with both feet.

“Sherlock. I don’t think… it doesn’t seem to be that you don’t want to, going by.” He inhales, decides to plow ahead, embarrassment be damned. “Going by your, um, reaction.”

“I do,” Sherlock says, his voice a bit clipped, a bit defensive. “I do, as you so eloquently put it, _want to._ ”

“This, though. This, um, hesitation.”

“You said it was fine.”

“It is fine! Of course it is. I just…” John gathers up all his courage, plows forward with the question he knows he has to ask. “I don’t think...this isn’t about being new to all this, is it?”

“I’m sure I don’t follow,” Sherlock says, and when John hears the brittle coldness in his voice he knows his suspicions are far from baseless.

“When we...there’s very specific boundaries in place, and when we come up to them...you shut down, Sherlock. You just..remove yourself. That’s not first time nerves. That’s something else.”

Sherlock is absolutely still and silent.

“Sherlock,” John continues, careful and quiet. “I’ve seen your back. I know you were hurt. I don’t want to pry, I don’t want to cause you discomfort but...I’m starting to think something else happened there. In Serbia.”

Sherlock rolls away and sits up on the edge of the bed, his back to John.

“A great many things happened in Serbia,” he says, flat and remote. “None of them were pleasant.”

“That’s not an answer,” John replies.

“I’m not--there isn’t--” Sherlock’s measured breathing falters.

John waits out the interminable silence.

“I can’t,” Sherlock finally says, voice almost a whisper, and John hates how shaky and uncertain he sounds. “John. I can’t. You want me to tell you things that I--Don’t ask me to. _Please_.”

It’s the _please_ that does him in, makes John’s chest tighten and his stomach lurch as the suspicion hardens into a black, cold certainty.

“All right,” John says, and he cringes at the way he sounds, at the measured, _careful_ tones of his own voice. “It’s all right. Come lie down with me?”

“In a bit,” Sherlock says, and rises from the bed, moves to the door. “I’m terribly behind on case notes, I haven’t even--”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“I’ll be back in a little while, I promise,” Sherlock says in a rush as he opens the bedroom door and slips through, closing it behind him, closing it on John. 

Both of them, of course, know full well he’s lying.

John lies awake, alone in the rumpled bed, as the scent of contraband tobacco drifts to his nostrils. He hears Sherlock pacing back and forth across the sitting room as he smokes, and his heart aches.

He considers going out there and trying again, pushing harder, forcing a confrontation, but in the end decides against it. He has no clue what he’s doing, he’s flying blind, but though he’s not sure of much at all right now he knows he doesn’t want to cause Sherlock any further pain. So he doesn’t.

John doesn’t think he could possibly sleep, but he does, falling into a thin, restless dream-plagued slumber for a few hours sometime after dawn. 

He wakes late in the morning, feeling distinctly ill and unrested. Knowing more sleep is out of the question he rises, goes into the sitting room to find Sherlock unconscious, sprawled messily over the sofa, long pale bare feet dangling over the upholstered arm.

John covers him carefully with the blanket from his chair, goes into the kitchen to make coffee.

It’s close to noon, and he’s halfheartedly struggling with the crossword at the kitchen table when Sherlock rises. He passes by John without a word on his way to the bathroom. 

Over an hour later, he emerges, perfectly put together, scrubbed and shaved, hair carefully styled, dressed in a dark grey suit and crisp white shirt. His face is perfectly bland and calm, his eyes remote to the point of robotic blankness.

“I’m off to Barts,” he tells John from the doorway between the hall and the kitchen, buttoning his cuffs. “Molly’s got herself a _situs inversus totalis_ , and I’ve not ever seen one up close, so.”

John looks up from the five across he’s been looking at blankly for an age.

“Sounds interesting,” he says cordially, knowing Sherlock hears the unspoken request in his tone. _I’d say yes, if you asked me to come._

Sherlock chooses to ignore it.

“Most likely be late,” he says instead, and his voice is cool and self-possessed, but he’s not quite able to meet John’s eyes. “Don’t stay up.”

He disappears without waiting for an answer.

After the front door slams, John puts down his pencil with a sigh and rubs at his sore, tired eyes. He feels like he has been crying, or maybe that he could cry, and for hours. He doesn’t quite know which.

“Fuck,” he says out loud, his voice reverberating in the empty flat. He feels impotent, helpless. He feels angry, not at Sherlock, God of course not, but at the idea of somebody hurting him--

The anger solidifies into a hot, terrifying rage, and it’s pointless. It’s _useless_. It’s beyond useless, in fact, it’s actively detrimental and does nothing to help Sherlock, nothing it all. John knows this, he does, so he pushes it down, slows his breathing and empties his mind, allows the fury to flow around and past him, doesn’t allow the rage to burn him up.

He sits there a long time. Eventually it passes. He is, in small ways, getting better at this.

Still, it’s fucking _exhausting._

Not knowing what else to do, he gets up and pours himself another cup of coffee before tackling the growing pile of washing-up.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn’t _want_ to know what happened. But at the same time, he does. Perhaps knowledge would help. Perhaps knowledge would help him help Sherlock, or at least know better to navigate this dreadful icy impasse and get them back on firmer, warmer ground.
> 
> And the truth at the heart of it all is this: He doesn’t want to know the details just for the sake of knowing; that terrible knowledge would be as sharp and cold as a knife in his heart, but even that pain, he thinks, would be a relief from the exquisite, endless hell of _wondering_. It’s the difference between being terrified of the unseen terrors of the dark, and knowing exactly what monsters lurk in the inky depths, the dimensions of their teeth and claws and how best to kill them in a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Yep, now it's four chapters. Surprise!
> 
> Just for keeping-track purposes: The word rape is mentioned here, but the bit of explicit exposition is in the next chapter. 
> 
> Thank you for the wonderful mycapeisplaid for a lightning fast and thorough beta on this chapter!

As the next few difficult days pass, John finds himself spending almost all of his time in the flat.

He doesn’t have a job to go to, nor does he especially want one. 

After the terrible events of last fall, especially that final, dreadful night at Appledore and everything that followed, he hadn’t been able to even imagine going back to the surgery where he worked alongside Mary: too many bad memories lived in those worn beige hallways, three years’ worth of sadness and loss and grief crowding in from all sides, threatening to overwhelm him at every turn.

Honestly, John would rather collect trolleys in an Asda car park than set foot in that clinic ever again. 

Thank God he never has to. A fortnight after the house he shared with Mary went to auction he received a cheque for an amount far higher than expected -- a quiet, Mycroftian intervention, without a doubt. 

He took the cheque with his head held high, his pride still intact. If his goals and Mycroft’s happen to coincide, well, he can live with that. And quite comfortably, on that amount of money.

So John has nowhere else he needs to be, not really, and his concern for Sherlock keeps him close to Baker Street. Not that John would phrase it like that. Not that he even (at least consciously) thinks about it like that. But the facts are incontrovertible--aside from regular visits to Mrs. Hudson and sporadic trips to the supermarket, he’s become something of a homebody, cooking and cleaning and…

And keeping an eye on Sherlock, if he’s being completely honest with himself. Keeping an eye on him, making sure he is as safe and protected as John can possibly keep him.

Though Sherlock doesn’t seem especially amenable to being cared for. In fact, John’s beginning to wonder if his recent domesticity is irritating Sherlock, contributing to his distant, chilly demeanour.

In his moments of greater self-awareness, John realises he may in fact be hovering, rounding the bend of careful and considerate and stepping dangerously close to the land of condescending and patronizing. It’s obviously not the wisest or most productive approach to take with a man as proud and self-possessed as Sherlock Holmes. But at the moment he hasn’t really got a more workable plan, has he?

John resolves to outlast Sherlock’s recalcitrance by being more calm and more patient--basically, just wait him out--but the days stretch on and on and Sherlock just grows ever more remote.

John’s cordial “Good morning” or "How are you?" is met with a bitten off "Fine," or a sarcastic "Splendid", or worst of all, cold stony silence. 

The very few times John has attempted even the most minor contact, a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder or a brushing of fingers against his hand, Sherlock freezes, going still and watchful, his pulse jumping visibly along the pale column of his throat.

It both hurts John horribly to see, and at the same time makes him feel incredibly frustrated and annoyed. Guilt for feeling negative soon follows -- after all, Sherlock is the one so clearly in pain. 

But sometimes he can’t shake the feeling of profound unfairness, like he’s the one doing all the work while Sherlock hides behind his emotional walls. 

It is awful, and exhausting, and he may be a martyr, may be a sucker for almost-lost causes, but even John knows they can’t go on like this for very much longer.

***

Sherlock’s cold shoulder applies, less specifically and more generally, to Mrs. Hudson as well. Day after day passes with pots of tea gone undrunk, toast gone uneaten, scones and pastries gone stale and dry on their paper lace doilies.

She asks John about it, one afternoon after one motherly entreaty too many-- _Maybe a nice bowl of soup?--_ causes Sherlock to finally rise from his coma-like repose on the couch and stalk into the bedroom, slamming the door behind himself with a great deal more force than necessary, making the landlady jump and squeak in alarm.

“What’s got into him, John?” she asks, her voice plaintive but edged with an unmistakable annoyance as she wrings a flowered tea-towel in between papery, blue-veined hands. “I know it’s not my business, it’s not, but when you two finally worked it out he seemed so happy, and now he’s worse than ever.” She lowers her voice, conspiratorial. “Are you two having troubles already?”

“Not at all. It’s just a--” John pauses, surprise by his unexpected desire to confide in Mrs. Hudson, despite knowing it’s not a good idea in the slightest, that Sherlock would suss it out in an instant. “--just a blue moment. You know how his moods are. It will pass.”

“You’re not worried?” She looks at him sharply, and John doesn’t quite know whether she’s seeking reassurance or criticizing him for seeming not to care enough. He suddenly feels slightly defensive, and the passing desire to take her in confidence evaporates as quickly as it appeared.

“I will always take care of him, Mrs. Hudson. That’s not about to change.”

She looks not quite convinced. “Well, he needs to eat. You just make sure of that.”

“I will. I promise. He’s just--he just needs a little time. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

Mrs. Hudson gives him one last long look through slightly narrowed eyes before bending to retrieve the untouched tray from the cluttered desk and hurriedly retreating down the steps to her own flat.

Annoyed and feeling strangely guilty, John strides down the front hall, knocks on the closed bedroom door.

No answer.

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock,” John sighs. “Now Mrs. Hudson thinks I’m making you miserable, or something.” 

He tries the handle.

It’s locked, which sends a strange, sharp stab of pain through John’s heart. “Am I?” he asks, not even really loud enough for Sherlock to hear through the door. “Making you miserable?” 

He’s met with silence. 

John steps back, leans heavily against the wall.

“Maybe I should… fucking hell, if my presence here is making you this unhappy, maybe I should. I don’t know.” He swallows past the lump that has formed unexpectedly in his throat. “Maybe I should go.”

John hears the creak of bedsprings, the sound of the lock being turned. Sherlock opens the door, strides past him into the kitchen.

“Don’t be a drama queen, John,” he says as he fills the kettle, puts it on. “It really doesn’t suit.”

John rubs at his eyes, unsure whether he’s relieved or exhausted. “No, that’s your job, isn’t it?” He chuckles without mirth. “Yeah, thanks for the reminder.”

Sherlock, of course, doesn’t deign to answer.

***

The strange thing is, for all the silent treatment Sherlock’s dishing out, he doesn’t seem much more inclined to leave the flat than John is. He doesn’t work on his laptop or conduct experiments, either, spending a ridiculous number of hours staring into space, fingers steepled under his chin.

Occasionally, he yells at the television.

With both of them unwilling to leave the same bit of enclosed space, they end up tiptoeing around each other. Well, John tiptoes. Sherlock stomps around and pretends like John doesn’t even exist ninety seven percent of the time.

The other three percent he’s huffing, rolling his eyes, or barking single-word responses.

But one thing that John is good at, always, is hanging on under difficult circumstances, and he’s not about to pull away from Sherlock now, not unless he’s asked--an unsettling thought his mind shies away from like a spooked animal.

It’s a testament to John’s stubborn, perhaps pigheaded optimism that he’s still sleeping in Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock himself isn’t, instead staying up all night, driving himself to exhaustion before collapsing into unconsciousness, whereupon John finds him in passed out and snoring on the sofa at odd, random hours of both day and night.

But John persists, knowing that despite Sherlock’s refusal to share his own bed with him, the act of taking himself back to his own room would be interpreted by a fragile and insecure Sherlock as a rejection, as a repudiation of the tentative progress they had made not so many days ago. No, doing that would making an already difficult situation even worse.

So it’s...really, really awkward. To say the very least.

Sometimes John wonders if the reason Sherlock is pushing him away so completely, so deliberately, is that he is trying and make him snap, push back, start a row--something, _anything_ to pick off whatever strange, numb scab has grown over the two of them. John wonders, he does, and he knows that would be utterly in character for Sherlock, ever the emotional game-player, but he just...can’t. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to begin.

 _We were so close to having so much_ , he thinks. _So goddamned close_. And he’s too stubborn to walk away from that, but at the same time, too afraid of losing it to take the risk of pulling it all out in the open, especially from an unwilling Sherlock. That feels like a further trespass, an inexcusable cruelty, and John cannot bear the thought of causing the person he loves above all others any further pain.

And so, the painful, ultimately untenable situation drags on and on with no resolution in sight.

Six days in, John surprises himself one morning by considering other ways of breaking the standoff. He considers, briefly, going to Mycroft, then dismisses the idea almost instantaneously, horrified with himself for contemplating it for even a second.

But as time passes and the one sided conversation in his head reaches no workable conclusion, he finds himself circling back around to that distasteful, traitorous thought.

Mycroft knows _exactly_ what happened in Serbia. Of that John has no doubt whatsoever.

John doesn’t _want_ to know what happened. But at the same time, he does. Perhaps knowledge would help. Perhaps knowledge would help him help Sherlock, or at least know better to navigate this dreadful icy impasse and get them back on firmer, warmer ground.

And the truth at the heart of it all is this: He doesn’t want to know the details just for the sake of knowing; that terrible knowledge would be as sharp and cold as a knife in his heart, but even that pain, he thinks, would be a relief from the exquisite, endless hell of _wondering_. It’s the difference between being terrified of the unseen terrors of the dark, and knowing exactly what monsters lurk in the inky depths, the dimensions of their teeth and claws and how best to kill them in a fight.

Discussing Sherlock’s time in Serbia, even with the best of intentions, would be a dreadful violation of a hurt and fragile Sherlock's privacy. As much as John justifies it as trying to help, Sherlock's history is his own business, not John’s.

He has no right to expect or demand answers.

Except.

John begins to worry that he may not be able to wait this one out. Sherlock is amazing in so many, many ways, and while his unbelievably strong will is an asset in so many situations, John steadily grows concerned that his refusal to even obliquely open himself up to what lay buried under the surface may be, well, a permanent condition.

Maybe if he had more information, a more complete picture, he would be better able to approach Sherlock, better able to help him handle whatever he's dealing with on his own.

And besides, He wouldn't be talking to Mycroft as a medical professional. He would be talking to Mycroft as Sherlock's friend. Boyfriend, maybe even. Of a sort, he supposes, even as that budding relationship withers and dies on the vine.

And would that be...would that be all right? Morally defensible?

No. Of course it's not all right, and John knows he's scrabbling for justifications for doing something he knows full well isn’t right.

He hangs on to his patience, hopes for a change, scrabbles for some kind of emotional toehold. 

And that, ironically, seems to make everything worse. The nicer he tries to be, the more distant and cold Sherlock grows to a point where he’s not even rude or snappish or inconsiderate. Just icy, remote, frozen over, his pale eyes seeming to focus on a distant horizon only he can see.

Their usual rapport, the unspoken connection that always bound them together even in the worst of times, seems to be fraying more and more with every passing day.

John finally makes a decision early on a Monday evening, after dinner goes ignored and a strained, tense silence finally grows unbearable.

He puts aside the medical journal he'd been halfheartedly trying to read, looks over at Sherlock, stretched out on the couch, fully dressed except for shoes, fingers steepled under his lips. His eyes are closed, and John wonders where he is in his mind palace, what bits of furniture he’s rearranging to keep John barricaded out. Or to keep unwelcome things from escaping. He honestly doesn’t know.

"You should play a bit," John suggests. “Some music would be lovely.”

Silence.

"It's been ages,” he adds.

"You should not presume to tell me what I should and should not do," Sherlock says, voice flat and cold. "Ever. Again."

“What have I presumed, may I ask?” John says, and even as he says it he’s trying to take it back, trying to keep his calm, trying to keep the strident, pissed-off tone out of his voice and failing miserably

“You say I _should_ eat. You tell me I _should_ sleep.”

“I’m trying to keep you healthy and rested. I didn’t know you found that so offensive.”

“Tiresome,” Sherlock says, in that dismissive, bored voice that seems designed to target John’s last fraying nerve. “All of it.”

“Does ‘all of it’ include me, I wonder?” John asks, voice brittle.

Sherlock’s eyes flash dangerously. “Do you really want me to answer that?” 

A red flashing danger sign begins going off in John’s frustrated and tired brain.

_Stop. Breathe. You know he doesn’t mean it._

_Get some air._

"Right," John says, rising from his chair and snatching up his mobile. "I'm going out."

Sherlock deigns to look over at him, one eyebrow raised. "Out? Really? I’d thought you’d really gone all in on this agoraphobia thing.”

His words are casually hurtful, but John hears the anxiety underneath.

“Charming of you, and oh so sensitive, but no such luck,” he snaps.

Sherlock sighs, turns his body into the couch, presses his face into the cushion. He is silent as John pockets his wallet and keys.

“Where _are_ you going?” Sherlock asks, voice muffled by the cushion, still trying to feign indifference and doing a poor job. John almost stops, almost shoves the frustration back down, almost sits back down in his lumpy old chair and says _nowhere, I’m not leaving, I’ll never leave you._

But he doesn’t. This is the most interaction he’s gotten from Sherlock in days, and besides, he really does need some fresh cool air, some oxygen to his brain.

And maybe a drink. A drink sounds bloody _lovely_ , as a matter of fact.

"Somewhere where I won't be treated like something scraped off a welly," John snaps. “Might be a nice change of pace.” 

And with that he leaves, resisting the impulse to stomp angrily down the steps and thereby alerting the ever observant Mrs Hudson to their pathetic little domestic. 

He closes the front door carefully but firmly behind him as he leaves.

The guilt for losing his patience with Sherlock sets in almost immediately, but on the heels of that is a spike of annoyed, helpless frustration.

He shouldn’t have snapped at Sherlock.

“But Jesus, I’m only human,” John grumbles to no one as he walks down the pavement, eyes on his feet, his breath puffy clouds in the chill night air. 

In his annoyance, he forgot his damn jacket, and he’s regretting it.

But not enough to turn back, so he continues, shoulders hunched, with no real destination in mind except grab a pint--or perhaps several--get a little space and time to think, time get his emotions under control and figure out what the hell to do next.

A few minutes later, when the long black car pulls up alongside him, John is frankly surprised by how _unsurprised_ he is.

Later, John won't know for certain if he would have ended up seeking out Mycroft of his own volition. He'd like to think not, but...well. _Maybe_. Probably, if he's being completely honest with himself.

And when the gleaming sedan pulls up to the curb, John knows still has choices, just like he always has. He can choose not to get in. He can flip Mycroft off-- with either the middle finger only or two-fingered classic Brit style, Lord knows he’s fluent in both--and just walk away.

In fact, he’s probably one of a bare handful of people who can tell Mycroft Holmes to go fuck himself and live to see another day.

John knows this.

But he doesn’t do it.

Instead he sighs, opens the door, slides onto the smooth buttery leather upholstery and pulls the heavy door shut behind himself.

The car pulls away from the corner, merges smoothly into traffic.

Settling back into the heated, ridiculously plush seat, John regards the man in front of him with wary, watchful trepidation.

Mycroft is alone tonight, no Anthea or random young assistant at his side. The glass partition between the back section and the driver is raised and shut tight.

They are completely alone.

"How the hell did you..." John cuts himself off, shakes his head in rueful resignation. "Jesus. There's really no point in asking that question, is there?"

"None whatsoever," Mycroft replies serenely, but John knows the man well enough to recognize his clipped cadence and overly posh vowels speak volumes about his true level of anxiety and concern. Mycroft turns to his right just slightly, extracts a file from the briefcase next to him without looking, extends it towards John. "I believe this is what you're after."

"His medical records," John observes flatly. "From Serbia."

"Yes," Mycroft answers, just as evenly.

"No," John says. 

Mycroft's right eyebrow raises just a fraction.

"That's not…” John sighs, scrubs fingers through his hair. “That's unethical in the extreme. It's bad enough that I'm talking to you. I'm not going to go digging through his medical records behind his back. Good God, I’m a doctor. We do have rules about that sort of thing.”

"Then what do you want?" Mycroft asks, truly puzzled. 

"You came to me," John points out.

Mycroft merely gives him a silent, pointed look. 

"All right," John says, throwing up his hands. “Yes, all right? Bloody yes, I would have eventually come to you, most likely. Happy?”

“No, John,” Mycroft says quietly, and John isn’t sure if he really hears a chastising note in his voice or if it’s a projection of his own guilty conscience. “Not one single moment of this makes me anything resembling happy.”

John has absolutely no response, his mind a jumble of confusing thoughts.

The two men sit in uncomfortable silence as the car travels the streets of London and John wrestles his careening thoughts under some semblance of control.

“Mycroft,” John finally says, after regaining a measure of calm. “Look. I don’t want to look at a bunch of paper. What I want is...what _you_ can tell me about what happened. Not as the government. Not as MI6. Just. Can you tell me what happened to your brother?”

Mycroft doesn’t answer for several long minutes, instead staring pensively out the window, each passing streetlight playing across his sharp features in waves of light and shadow.

“I never should have authorized the mission,” Mycroft finally says, low and quiet. “I knew...please don’t misunderstand me. Sherlock is perfectly capable of handling himself in the field. Intelligence and competence were never an issue. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” John murmurs.

“But that level of intelligence work required a level of deep cover he wasn’t able to maintain.” Mycroft’s lips twist with a bemused wryness. “Not with a face as singular as his. He was too well known to… his cover with the Serbians was blown almost immediately. They played with him, toyed with him psychologically. Deliberately allowed him to escape just to capture him again. Of course, he outplayed them. He was able to steal the plans out from under their collective noses, get them to his liaison before his recapture.” He looks out the window, his thin lips pressed together tightly. “That...displeased them. Greatly. But they knew his value. It's the reason they didn't kill him, or physically injure him more severely--”

“Have you seen his back?” John asks sharply. “Because those scars look pretty damn _severe_ to me.”

"You have a vast and varied medical background,” Mycroft replies, his cultured voice gaining the slightest edge. “You must be somewhat familiar with the the nature of organized crime in the Eastern European community and therefore not unaware of what horrors prisoners--hostages--are frequently subject to. Cuts and gouges and beatings, as unpleasant as they are, are nothing, _nothing_ , compared to what they could have inflicted upon him had they so desired. Surely you’re so naive as to be willfully blind to that reality.”

John closes his eyes, a shiver of horror running down spine as the images of Sherlock being horribly brutalized and disfigured threatens to take form in his mind. He pushes the dreadful thoughts away with a concerted effort, shakes his head.

“True,” John acknowledges. “Yes, absolutely true. But there are other kinds of torture. Kinds that don’t leave scars. Aren’t there?”

"Yes," Mycroft says flatly. “There are.” 

His face is composed, but he looks down, smooths an invisible crease in his trousers before continuing.

“Information came to me through official channels. But I had many eyes and ears on the ground, of course, paid informants scattered throughout the Serbian network. Soon enough word began to get back to me about the nature of Sherlock’s situation. About the... _attentions_ he was subject to.”

John is suddenly struck with the almost unbearable ugliness of what they’re actually discussing, of how they’re both shielding themselves from Sherlock’s truth with oblique, bloodless language.

He suddenly hates himself, and Mycroft too, for being such gutless goddamn cowards.

“Attentions,” says John, voice harsh and tight. “That's one hell of a euphemism for rape.”

The ugly word hangs between them, a bell that cannot be unrung. 

Mycroft shifts, looks away, but doesn't deny it.

“How long,” John asks, low and dangerous. “How long did you leave him there?”

“John.”

“ _How long_.”

Mycroft looks down at his perfectly manicured fingertips. “Nine weeks,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Nine weeks,” John breathes out, the rage in him white hot and vicious. He could kill Mycroft right now without batting an eyelash. “Nine weeks. You _fucking monster.”_

To his credit, Mycroft looks John full in the eye, does not cringe away or back down.

“What would you have had me do?” Mycroft demands.”Storm in there with an army regiment, guns blazing, like some ridiculous Hollywood movie?”

“Yes!” John hisses, fists clenched so tightly his nails are digging deep, tiny red crescents etching into his palms. “Jesus Christ, yes! He’s your own brother, your own little brother, and you just _left_ him there, left him to be--”

"I had _no choice_." Mycroft's voice is low but cutting, eyes flashing as his own heretofore well concealed anger boils up, hot and close to the surface. “It doesn’t work that way, John. You know that. Whatever power I may have, I don’t have the werewithal to start World War Three over the fate of a single agent. Even if--even if it is Sherlock. Take a breath, John. Then take another, and try to think clearly. Come now. You know this to be true.”

John closes his eyes breathes in. Counts to three, exhales.

Opens his eyes to glare at Mycroft. He’s still viciously angry, but the urge to actually kill the man has fortunately, subsided a notch or two, simmering down to merely a maiming or a thorough bludgeoning.

“I acted as quickly as I could,” Mycroft continues, softer, a note of something close to pleading in his tone. “Please believe me, John, when I tell you I moved heaven and earth to bring him home. The Serbians knew Sherlock had value, believed he could be used a bargaining chip. But the British government doesn't bargain. Not with criminals. There was nothing I could do. No leverage. So instead, I...all I could do was make Sherlock’s presence at home enough of a necessity to justify going in undercover to retrieve him.” 

John stares at Mycroft, poleaxed, as he parses the man’s words. Understanding breaks over him like a wave, extinguishing his anger, leaving him hollow in its wake.

"The attack on Parliament,” John breathes in horrified amazement. “The bomb. You were behind it. You engineered the whole thing. That's why it felt so false, so obvious." He recovers a bit and chuckles without mirth, shakes his head. “Real terrorist bombs don’t generally have an off switch, do they? No matter what Sherlock said.”

“No, they do not.” Mycroft sighs wearily. "Creating a scenario that gave me a plausible reason to go in and extract him took nine weeks. Sixty-two days of knowing, the entire time, that a vile, perverted Serbian thug was-- " he shakes his head, more visibly drained and exhausted than John has ever seen him. "If you ever again doubt my care or concern for my younger brother,” he continues, “remember this: I committed _high treason against the United Kingdom_ in order to rescue him.” 

John stares at him in frank shock. He realises his jaw is hanging open slightly, closes it with a barely-audible snap.

One corner of Mycroft’s thin mouth twitches upward in a small humourless grin. “By the by, just in telling you, I've made you an accessory to my crimes against the Crown. So you may want to keep this conversation strictly between us.”

John recovers his composure enough to roll his eyes. “Marvelous,” he murmurs. “Ta so much for that.”

Mycroft ignores his sarcastic aside, picking up the folder from where it lies next to him on the leather seat. John is certain he’s merely using it as a prop, certain he has the details etched, seared into his photographic memory.

“Moving on,” Mycroft states bloodlessly. “As far as the...exact nature of his experience, Sherlock was, unsurprisingly, less than completely forthcoming about the details of what occurred. Actual physical findings on his person were relatively minor. Moderate abrasions, bruising, swelling and the like. He was given prophylactic antibiotics and antiretrovirals. The STI panel was negative, and remained so at three and six months.” Mycroft closes the folder, puts it aside, steeples his fingers under his chin in a manner very reminiscent of his brother. “All this to say, what happened to Sherlock in Serbia has, thankfully, not caused him any permanent damage to his physical health.”

“Not all damage is physical,” John counters.

“I know.”

“He was offered counseling?”

“Of course.”

“Which he flatly refused, I’m guessing.”

Mycroft merely raises an eyebrow in sardonic affirmation.

John swallows past the heavy, cold feeling pressing into his chest and looks down at his hands, still tightly clenched into fists. He deliberately uncurls them, wincing a bit at the cramped, sore feeling as the blood rushes back into his fingers. He looks back up at Mycroft.

“I don’t know that I’m doing any good,” he confesses, the words spilling out unplanned. “I might be making it worse. He’s in desperate need of professional trauma counseling.”

“That’s not ever going to happen, John, and you know it.”

“I know. I do know. I just--have no real training in this area. I’m really just--” He breathes deep, blows out a breath. “I care about him,” he confesses, his mouth barrelling past his brain for reasons he doesn’t fully understand. “I do, Mycroft. I care about him so much.”

“You love him,” Mycroft states. It’s not an accusation, nor a mockery. It’s a dry statement of fact.

“Yes,” John admits without dissembling. “I do. And it’s a liability, it makes me far too close to this to function effectively. I’m not his doctor, not really. I’m his---well, I don’t exactly know what I am to him, right at this moment. But I do know I’m absolutely not equipped to deal with this.”

“From where I stand, you're the _only_ one equipped to deal with this." Mycroft’s gaze softens, just a fraction. “You know Sherlock better than anyone else, so tell me, John, honestly. If not you, then who?”

John has no ready answer for that question.

The silence between the two men descends again, thick and oppressive, heavy with regret and doubt and terrible sadness.

It has begun to rain outside. The drops glitter on the dark-tinted glass of the car window.

When Mycroft speaks again, his voice is softer, kinder.

"He's going to know, you know. That you talked to me. And he's going to be livid."

"I know," John says. "And frankly, he'll have every right to be."

“Do you have a plan?” Mycroft asks.

“None whatsoever,” John admits honestly.

Mycroft inclines his head slightly, but doesn’t answer. 

There’s really nothing else to say.

"We’re done here?" John asks after a moment.

"It would seem so," Mycroft murmurs. "Can I drop you somewhere?"

"The nearest pub," John replies. “If you’d be so kind.”

Mycroft knocks on the raised glass partition; the driver lowers it several inches, and they exchange a few murmured words. 

The car turns right onto a quiet side street, gliding to an elegant halt at the kerb.

John opens the door and slides out of the car, the chill damp of the night raising gooseflesh on his uncovered neck. His fingers grasp the edge of the door tightly, as he pauses briefly, considering, before looking back at Mycroft.

"What was his name?" John asks.

Mycroft doesn’t insult him by asking for clarification.

"Rajakovic,” he replies. “Luka Rajakovic."

"I assume he's dead."

"Of course."

"And it was painful?"

Mycroft bares gleaming white incisors, but it’s not a smile. It’s the unmistakable vicious grin of an apex predator, and the sight would make a lesser man than John Watson cower in terror.

" _Exquisitely_."

"Good," John snarls, and slams the heavy car door shut. 

The black sedan slips smoothly back into the stream of traffic and is out of sight within a moment. John stands still and unmoving, long after the red taillights have rounded the corner and disappeared.

He has answers--well, some answers--but he doesn’t feel the slightest bit better.

In fact, he feels worse, because he knows that he very definitely betrayed Sherlock’s trust, even if it was in the service of the greater good.

In fact, he feels like utter _shit_.

He finally turns away from staring at the empty, rain slicked street in front of him, surveys his surroundings. He has no fucking clue where he is, and the neighbourhood looks marginal at best, but there is a pub just down the street at the end of the block. It’s more than a bit grotty-looking to be sure, but a welcome sight nonetheless. 

He pulls out his phone, is about to text Sherlock...but then something in him (guilt, apprehension, residual annoyance, take your pick) stays his hand.

With a weary sigh, John pockets his mobile and turns on his heel towards the pub on the corner, and the promise of a much-needed drink or possibly three.

***

Though he is tempted to indulge further, John cuts himself off after one pint and a plate of chips. He is eager to get home, anxiety over leaving Sherlock alone ( _Stop it,_ he tells himself to no avail, _he’s a grown man, he can fend for himself for a bloody hour_ ) superseding his concern about the reaction he’ll get upon his return.

He texts Sherlock twice in the cab, but receives no reply, further fuelling his anxiety.

When he gets out of the taxi, however, a light is shining in the sitting room windows, and he catches a brief glimpse of a dark, curly head ducking out of sight. Sherlock’s been waiting for him then, anxious for him to return despite his recent display of cold indifference. 

The thought is somehow reassuring, after a fashion.

John unlocks the front door and lets himself in, takes the steps up to the flat slowly, the dread increasing with each riser. 

For the life of him, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do next.

 _It’s not right, it’s not fair,_ he thinks. Their relationship, their connection, battered and bruised at every turn and all of it, all of it, even this, set into motion by a single psychotic man reaching out to torment them endlessly, even in death. 

John pauses on the steps, momentarily lost in thought.

 _No_ , he decides. _No_. He’s not going allow the two of them to accept the role of passive victims to Moriarty’s continuing campaign of terror and sorrow from beyond the grave. He’s just not.

Because both of them are fighters, and survivors who bested Moriarty in the end. They survived his machinations, and James Moriarty did not.

Now, finally, there’s no outside enemy here to tear them apart. It’s the two of them, doing the best that they can and there’s simply nothing to be done about it except muddle through as well as they are able.

“And there’s no way out but through,” John murmurs to the wallpaper in the stairwell. “So might as well get on with it.”

With those marginally reassuring if not exactly optimistic words to himself, he opens the door to the flat and slips inside.

Sherlock is stretched out on the couch, hands folded against his concave belly, still fully dressed as he was when John left earlier, in tailored trousers and a dress shirt.

Except for the rise and fall of his ribs, he looks like a corpse laid out for viewing, and boy, that’s not a thought that John particularly enjoys.

Sherlock’s closed eyes fly open when John steps into the room, pinning him in place with his icy, piercing gaze.

John stands still, tries to think of something, anything to say. Fails.

Sherlock rises, slowly, never taking his eyes off John. Approaches him slowly, deliberately, circles him, analysing him, taking in every inch of him from head to toe.

“Sherlock--” John starts.

“Don’t,” Sherlock snaps. He leans in closer, deliberately crowding into John’s personal space. If it weren’t for the cold stare and set jaw, one could almost think he was about to kiss him.

“Pint of Carling,” Sherlock murmurs. “Disappointing plate of undercooked chips and tinned gravy. Not your usual. Comfort food. Why did you need comforting?” His eyes scan across John’s shoulders, down his body. “Further away than walking distance. You came home in a cab, when generally you’d avoid the expense. Was it because you forgot your jacket? Where did you go, and how did you end up so far from…ohhhhhh.” He straightens, steps away, his eyes narrowing in tightly-reined anger.

“So you had a lovely chat with my dear brother,” he spits.

“What gave it away?” John asks, chin raised, refusing to drop eye contact. “Is there some evidence on my sleeve, some scent of expensive upholstery cleaner or something?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Sherlock replies in the coldest voice John has ever heard, a blast of pure liquid nitrogen. “Just the fetid stink of guilt and betrayal. _Waves_ of it.”

“He came to me,” John replies, defensive, teetering on the edge of righteous anger. 

“So?” Sherlock snaps. 

“I only talked to him because you won’t talk to me. Not just about--you won’t talk to me _at all_. And you’re barely sleeping, not eating--”

“That’s not true,” Sherlock says, backing up half a step. “I ate eggs and toast this morning.”

“That was _yesterday_ , Sherlock. This is exactly what I mean. You’re losing track of time, you’re so completely locked in your own head, and I can’t reach you, and...God, I’m concerned, Sherlock. Really concerned. I’m sorry, I am, and I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I didn’t know what else to _do_.”

“What did he tell you?” Sherlock asks flatly.

“About--” John scrubs fingers through short grey-blond hair, looks away, pained. “about why he went to Serbia to get you out. The intel he had regarding--your situation."

“So much for privileged communication,” Sherlock bites out. “Patient privacy laws apply to every one of Her Majesty’s subject, except me, apparently. How nice to know how very _special_ I am.”

The last shred of John’s careful patience frays, snaps.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. I would so much rather have talked to you, but in case you didn’t notice you’ve been freezing me out completely, it’s like the Arctic fucking Circle in here and--”

“So it’s my fault,” Sherlock snarls. 

“That’s not what--”

“So I pushed you to it. So I _deserve_ it.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, NO!” John shouts in exasperation, then immediately feels the flood of horrified guilt for shouting at Sherlock.

Sherlock glares at him, fury and disgust evident in every line etched into his pale, exhausted face.

“I expect nothing less from my brother,” Sherlock says, “But from you, John? I never thought.”

John exhales. Shakes his head. “I was worried, and made a choice. It was wrong of me, and I know that. I’m sorry, I am, but I didn’t do it to hurt you. I did it to help.”

“You did it to _help_.” Sherlock shakes his head in disbelief, then bends to pick up his phone from the end table crosses the small room in three steps. He snatches up his coat where he carelessly tossed it over his chair earlier, shrugs his arms into the sleeves.

“Sherlock,” John says, pleading. “I know you’re angry, I do know, but we need to talk about this. Please.”

Sherlock wheels on him, uses every inch of height to stare him down, eyes glittering with fury and unshed tears.

“I have no desire to talk to you,” he snarls. “Why on earth would I, after you went behind my back like a…” --He gestures at nothing with shaking hands, his voice loud and vicious.--“...like a _betraying fucking bastard.”_

Sherlock almost never swears, and the sound of those ugly syllables somehow causes John actual physical pain, making his shoulders sag, making him sway a bit on his feet.

“Sherlock, I--”

But Sherlock’s already gone, shoving roughly past John and stalking out the door. His feet pound down the steps, and as he leaves Baker Street he slams the front door behind him with a loud crash, making the very walls of the building jump and quiver.

John moves to the window, lifts the curtain with numb, bloodless fingers, watches Sherlock’s retreating back as he rounds the corner to Marylebone and disappears from sight. He pulls his phone from his jeans pocket; feeling like an even worse shit for texting Mycroft after Sherlock’s infuriated, appalled reaction, but there’s nothing else for it, not on this danger night to end all danger nights.

The kind of adrenaline coursing through John’s body right now, slick and greasy with fear and guilt and worry--this kind of adrenaline doesn’t bring him the precise laser focus of battle, the measured awareness that gives him a zone of calm in the face of confrontation. 

No, this kind makes his ice-cold hands tremble almost uncontrollably as he taps out a message to Mycroft.

**He’s more than livid, he’s fucking nuclear, and he’s left the flat.**

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “God, John,” Sherlock says, his voice catching, the cool calculating tone slipping away as emotion wells up, takes over. “You don’t know how much I wish you had never found out. I didn’t know I would--I thought I could box it up, bury it all forever, at the bottom of the deepest pit, never think of it again. And I _did_. I had moved on. I had deleted it. And then you kissed me, and you touched me, and I wanted you to, good God I wanted you to so much, but...I didn’t know. It’s so naive, so unbelievably clueless of me, but I didn’t know my body had held on to the memories my mind resolved to forget.
> 
> “And you knowing, the way you look at me now, is so very...I would rather have you be as angry as you were when I came back, a hundred times over, a thousand, then have to endure one more second of you looking at me with that remote, careful pity in your eyes. It’s absolutely _hateful_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, fair warning.
> 
> I had a very, very difficult time writing this chapter. You may have a harder time reading it.
> 
> This narrative, while not particularly explicit or pornographic in any detail is very, very difficult and potentially triggering. It contains intense discussions of the emotional aftermath of rape and abuse.
> 
> If these are things that could cause you distress or emotional difficulties, please proceed with extreme caution. I love you all and I want you to be safe.
> 
> I hope it is apparent to everyone reading this that there is absolutely no titillation or salacious intent here. 
> 
> This story went to places I didn't expect, and I think the journey is going to be very worthwhile in the end.
> 
> Thank you so much for your faith in me. It means more than I can ever, ever express.

John’s mobile rings. 

He entertains a brief, flickering hope it’s Sherlock calling, but even before he even looks down at the phone he knows it’s not. He swipes the screen, raises the mobile to his ear.

“Mycroft.”

“How bad was it?” Mycroft asks without preamble.

“Pretty bad,” John says. “He cursed a lot --more in one sentence than I’ve heard out of his mouth in the past five years-- and then left.”

“You’ve no idea where?”

“If I did, I’d be there,” John replies, voice tight and snappish with anxiety.

“John.” Mycroft hesitates, just for a single beat. “Do you think…”

“That he’s looking for drugs?” John supplies.

Mycroft doesn’t answer in words but instead sighs a bit, in that manner particular to long-suffering older siblings everywhere.

John’s knee-jerk reflex is to say _no, God, of course not_. It always has been, since that very first day, when Greg announced a drugs bust and John had looked up, startled, into Sherlock’s angular and oddly attractive face, his silver-green eyes boring into him with such quiet intensity, and thought to himself, _Not this man, no, never this man._ Even after he knew the truth, even after he had seen it with with his own two eyes, seen Sherlock disheveled and sweaty and high as hell in a filthy shooting den, John has never quite been able to get past that first response, never quite been able to reconcile the Sherlock Holmes he knows and loves with that other picture, of him as an emotionally volatile, struggling, always-one-step-from-relapse former IV drug addict. 

He has always had a difficult time accepting that side of Sherlock, the messy, troubled, self-destructive side. It runs right up against John’s desire to always see Sherlock as the brilliant, untouchable genius, the victor of every battle, the hero of every story.

It suddenly occurs to John, with the blinding flash of unexpected epiphany, that both of those images are caricatures of the real man underneath. The real Sherlock isn’t either one of those extremes, but exists instead somewhere in between the two. He is, in the end, a very real, very wonderful, yet very flawed actual human being, and John’s desire to deny and avoid the more difficult truths about Sherlock’s nature isn’t helping anyone right now.

In fact, it’s hurting them both.

It’s a true shortcoming on John’s part, it isn’t fair to Sherlock, and John knows he absolutely needs to change, though he’s not yet quite as clear on the how.

“...John?” Mycroft asks, and John wonders how long he was lost in the tangled undergrowth of his own thoughts.

“I hope not,” he finally says, and it’s the closest thing to the truth he has to offer.

“Did he take his phone?”

“Yes.”

“If he doesn’t toss it, I can use the GPS signal to pinpoint his location.”

“Don’t…” John takes a breath, tries to clarify his own thoughts. “Don’t go swooping in, Mycroft. He feels very betrayed right now, very violated. Tracking his every movement and snatching him up off the street isn’t a good idea. He’s a grown man--”

Mycroft exhales audibly. John can almost see the pinched, pained expression on his face.

“-- _He is_ , dammit, not a toddler who slipped out of the back garden, and you need to treat him as such.”

“So,” Mycroft snaps frostily. “You _don’t_ want me to find him, is what you’re saying?”

“No. _No._ What I’m saying is...fuck.” John pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the pounding thunderstorm of a headache beginning to gather behind his eyes. “Just. Do it _discreetly_ , all right?”

“As you wish, Doctor,” Mycroft says, his tone still chilly. He rings off without further conversation.

John ends the call, glares angrily at his mobile before shoving it back in his pocket.

“Fucking bloody _Mycroft Holmes_ ,” he growls, knowing even as he says it that none of this is Mycroft’s fault, not really; in fact, in his condescending, presumptuous way, he is desperately concerned and trying to help in the best way he knows how.

At loose ends and not quite knowing what else to do, John falls back upon British tribal instinct and goes into the kitchen, fills the kettle, and turns it on.

Waiting for the water to boil, he notices Sherlock’s slim black leather wallet, sitting on the cluttered kitchen/lab table.

Lack of money would make it harder to score easily, but John harbours no illusions, knows Sherlock’s got connections and resources and favours owed him all over London.

He also considers another thought: as far as pretexts go, it’s a pretty good one. He pulls out his phone and messages Sherlock.

**You left your wallet here.**

The kettle boils. He fishes a mug and a teabag out of the cluttered cupboards, fixes himself a cuppa he knows he won’t drink, and takes it into the sitting room. He puts his mug and mobile on the side table, lowers himself into his lumpy, comfortingly familiar armchair with a bone-tired sigh. 

God, he feels so _old_ these days.

He flicks on the telly, flips through the channels without really seeing anything, turns it off.

He stares at his mobile, trying to make it chime through sheer force of will.

It doesn’t.

He picks it up again, types out another message before he can stop himself.

**I’m so sorry. Let me know you’re okay. Please.**

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

Midnight comes and goes. John considers switching from tea to scotch, decides against it in case sudden, decisive action is required.

He showers, changes into flannel drawstring bottoms and a clean vest: comfortable clothing, suitable for home, but still able to dash out the door on a minute’s notice.

One o’clock creeps past, and John starts to pace the length of the small sitting room, unable to stop himself, the worry and fear a hot, prickly ache in his stomach, pressing upward into his diaphragm.

He feels like he can’t quite draw a full breath. 

Two o’clock. 

John seriously considers phoning Lestrade, to the point of his thumb hovering over his number on speed dial. But he doesn’t do it. He discards the idea as ridiculous, not to mention selfish. It’s the middle of the night, and the poor man doesn’t get near enough sleep as it is.

 _But what if Sherlock is in trouble?_ the little voice of worry in the back of his mind croons, low and persuasive. _What if he let his anger get the better of him, and does something impulsive and dumb?_ _What if he’s out there trying to score what if he’s preparing to shoot up **right now**_ \--

“Oh god, stop it,” he says aloud to the empty room. “For fuck’s sake stop it, that kind of thinking doesn’t help anybody.”

He snatches up his phone, checks the time. 2:07.

 _If I don’t hear from him by 3,_ he bargains with himself. _If I don’t hear from him by 3, I’ll phone Lestrade._

2:40. He tries texting one last time.

**Please, Sherlock. I’m very worried.**

A few minutes later, his phone rings, still in his hand

John is certain it’s Mycroft, or maybe Greg if Mycroft has alerted him to the situation.

Then John sees the caller ID on his screen, and his vision goes dark at the edges as a panicked fear claws at his heart. 

His history with Sherlock calling him instead of texting is a terrifying one, and long years of experience have taught him that nothing good happens at quarter to three in the morning.

The phone rings again, the standard boring stock ringtone the phone came with, and the simple chime has never sounded sinister or full of terrifying portent until now.

But John knows staring at it like it’s a cobra about to strike solves nothing whatsoever.

“Stop this nonsense,” John says aloud to no one, and picks up the call.

“Sherlock,” he says, with a measured calmness he certainly doesn’t feel. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay, John,” Sherlock replies. “I am. I swear.”

He sounds subdued, tired, but not overtly intoxicated, and just for that John breathes out in relief, the tightness in his shoulders easing just slightly.

“I’m--” _worried_ is the word about to spill from John’s mouth, but he reconsiders on the fly, decides not to go with the guilt trip that implies. “I’m glad.”

“I just needed to think,” Sherlock says. “Clear my head a bit.”

“I know that feeling,” John says honestly.

An awkward silence stretches between them.

“John,” Sherlock says. 

“Yes?”

“I need--I mean--would you do something for me, without asking questions?”

His neck tenses again. _Oh God._

“I’d do anything for you,” John says, surprising himself with the honesty and vehemence of his response. 

“I know this sounds strange, but-- I need you to go to bed. Just like a normal night. Go to bed, get under the covers, turn out the light. Can you do that?”

“Why?” asks John, and then remembers. “Sorry. I mean, I guess so. Yes.”

“Thank you,” murmurs Sherlock, sounding unsure, oddly formal. 

“Will you be home soon?” John asks. “I mean, no questions, sorry, but I just--I need to know. I’m climbing the walls here.” 

“Go to bed,” Sherlock says. “And I will be home soon. I promise.”

“All right,” John says.

Sherlock ends the call without another word.

John looks at the phone in his hand, confusion and relief and annoyance all washing over him in a single disorienting wave.

“Well,” he says sarcastically to an empty room. “That clarified exactly nothing.” 

And then, not knowing what else to do, he does as Sherlock asked.

As always.

***

He doesn’t mean to, but of course John falls asleep. One puts an exhausted 44 year old man in a comfortable bed at 2:55 in the morning, it’s and absolutely inevitable conclusion, no matter what frame of mind he is in.

He wakes, a bit muzzy and confused, to find Sherlock sitting tailor-style on the floor next to the bed, his shoulders perpendicular against John’s side of the mattress. His coat and jacket are missing, his shirtsleeves unbuttoned. His hair is still slightly damp from the drizzly night, the ends beginning to dry in the disheveled ringlets he hates so but John loves and longs to touch, always.

He hasn’t turned on any lights. The bedroom is lit only by the orange-grey glow of the streetlamps, filtering through the dusty bedroom window.

The angles and planes of his face are shadows, his expression unreadable in the grim light.

“You’re still asleep,” Sherlock says softly. “You’re still asleep, and this is a dream, and after tonight we will never again speak of these things.”

Under the covers, John’s fingers slip downward and he pinches the outside of his upper left thigh, hard.

Reality test. 

Hurts like hell. 

Not a dream, then.

He goes along with Sherlock’s wishes, lies quietly and waits.

Minutes pass. He’s almost asleep for real when Sherlock finally speaks.

“So many nights, John,” Sherlock murmurs softly, so softly he may be talking only to himself. “So many nights in so many rooms, I would sit and talk to you just like this, and you would keep me company, you would answer me, you would illuminate what I couldn’t see for myself. I would think I could hear your voice, sometimes, you were so real to me. 

“There were times, John, when the you living in my head saved my life. Or my sanity. Or both.”

Sherlock unfolds his long legs, turns slightly at the waist to pull something from his trouser pocket. He fiddles briefly with a small, clear pint bottle, and a moment later the bitter, organic solvent aroma of bottom-shelf alcohol reaches John’s nostrils.

“Scent memories are some of the most vivid,” Sherlock says. “Conducive to recollection in a way the other senses cannot begin to match. The smell of cheap vodka is one that is, for me, particularly evocative.”

He pauses, looks at the bottle in his hand.

“I thought about trying to score. I did. But when I considered it, _really_ considered it, I could see that oblivion, while tempting, isn’t what this situation calls for. Tonight isn’t about forgetting. It’s about remembering, painful and unwelcome as the memories may be. 

“And, of course, I didn’t want to disappoint you even further, didn’t want to burden you with dealing with a drugs lapse on top of everything else.”

He raises the bottle to the dim light of the window, regards the clear liquid within.

“But this--this is merely a bit of emotional anaesthesia, and of the variety that you prefer. Surely you wouldn’t begrudge me.”

Sherlock sketches an ironic toast with the bottle, brings it to his lips, swallows. 

Makes a pained face, sputters just a little, shakes his head.

“This is worse than lighter fluid,” he says a sardonic note in his low voice. “And bear in mind, I say that as someone who drank lighter fluid once. For a case, of course. I don’t recommend it.”

A dense, thoughtful silence fills the room as Sherlock studies the flask of vodka for a moment, considering.

“I’m not angry with you,” Sherlock says, and John knows he’s telling the truth, knows by his voice, soft and sad and with no trace of anger whatsoever. “I’m not angry with you for going to Mycroft. I’m not even really angry with him, either, aside from the usual baseline sibling resentment we carry around. I know my actions may have indicated otherwise, and I am sorry. But I’m not angry, or if I am, I’m...Okay. I may be angry. Incredibly so, in fact. I don’t think I always know exactly what I’m feeling, lately. So, angry, yes, possibly. Afraid, maybe. Overwhelmed, definitely. But I know for a fact that I’m not angry with _you_.”

He dips his head and exhales, back thrumming with tension, untamed curls spilling over the collar of his shirt. John longs to touch him, to stroke his soft, dark hair and rub his tense shoulders and murmur soft words of comfort. But he knows enough to know that’s what _he_ wants, not necessarily what Sherlock needs right now. So he stays still, resists his urges and keeps still, pretending to sleep.

“Logically, it makes no sense,” Sherlock says, his voice gone cooler, more remote, his voice of emotional remove. “Looking at it objectively, with the clear eyes of reason, why is there any difference between what Mary did and what Rajakovic did? Both of them were violations of my body, trespasses against my person. From a purely logical point of view, one could make the argument that what Mary did to me was in fact worse, because she was actively trying to take my life, whereas Rajakovic caused me neither permanent physical injury nor death.

“And yet, that’s not true, is it? It defies rational logic on its face, yet anyone who’s spent any time in the real world knows it isn’t true at all. And why? Because of the guilt around it, the endless shame. And the guilt and shame is contagious. It infects everyone who knows about what happened. It taints every relationship it touches.”

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, looking at the floor.

“God, John,” Sherlock says, his voice catching, the cool calculating tone slipping away as emotion wells up, takes over. “You don’t know how much I wish you had never found out. I didn’t know I would--I thought I could box it up, bury it all forever, at the bottom of the deepest pit, never think of it again. And I _did_. I had moved on. I had deleted it. And then you kissed me, and you touched me, and I wanted you to, good God I wanted you to so much, but...I didn’t know. It’s so naive, so unbelievably clueless of me, but I didn’t know my body had held on to the memories my mind resolved to forget.

“And you knowing, the way you look at me now, is so very...I would rather have you be as angry as you were when I came back, a hundred times over, a thousand, then have to endure one more second of you looking at me with that remote, careful pity in your eyes. It’s absolutely _hateful_.”

Even if he had been expected to answer, John doesn’t know if he could even speak past the tightness constricting his throat, his airway blocked by sadness and grief and the choking, constricting knot of unshed tears.

Sherlock shakes his head, takes a sip of cheap vodka. Breathes in and exhales, visibly collecting himself.

“And yet,” he says, voice rough but calm. “And yet, you’ve been so good to me, so patient, so kind, and I’ve been so ungrateful, I know, I’ve been awful, but it’s because-- because I can see something even beyond the pity, even beyond the carefulness, the tiptoeing. There is something worse, something lurking underneath it all, and you don’t mean for me to see it, but I do. 

“I can see the blank space behind your eyes, the void where you’re so carefully not thinking about _it_ , so carefully keeping yourself from wondering about it, about what actually happened. 

“Because you want to know, don’t you?” Sherlock’s voice is still low and quiet but his tone goes just a shade harsher, a shade more accusatory. “Some part of you wants to know the lurid details, the physical reality of what was done to me, the blood and the sweat and flesh and the violence of it all. Some part of you wants to picture it, and I know that horrifies you, because you’re a good person and you care about me, so you try desperately to shut it down, push it away. But the harder you try, the bigger that blank space grows. 

“And it makes me feel, somehow, that when you look at me, all you see is what happened, or the question of what happened, the dark ugly shadow of it, and it blots out everything else until--until you can’t see _me_ anymore.”

John feels his belly flood with the hot, churning defensiveness and guilt of someone caught dead to rights.

“Sherl--” he begins.

Sherlock holds up a hand. It trembles just minutely.

“No, you’re sleeping, shut up,” Sherlock says. “Anyway, you know it’s true, so just _shut up_ and let me get through this.”

It is, and John knows it, so he shuts up.

“It’s all right, by the way,” Sherlock says, and the harsh edge in his tone is gone, as quickly as it appeared. “I know you’re feeling tremendous guilt right now, and you truly oughtn’t. You’ve done nothing at all wrong. You’re human, with human curiosity. Were I in your shoes, I would feel exactly the same.”

He raises the bottle, takes a gulp of vodka, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“But it’s going to tear us apart, isn’t it? The blank space. The wondering.”

John doesn’t answer. He’s not meant to.

Sherlock goes silent, sorting through his thoughts.

Heart pounding against his ribs, John waits.

Sherlock inhales deeply through his nose, and begins.

“I was sent to infiltrate a Serbian arms smuggling ring that looked to be one of the last remnants of Moriarty’s operation. 

“They had plans for creating a high-volume arms transit corridor between Serbia and key points in the Middle East. I successfully retrieved the plans, but ended up blowing my cover in the process. I was snatched off the street in Belgrade moments after I made the drop, bound and drugged in the back of an old, beat up delivery van, just like in every third rate spy film you’ve ever seen.

“I was unconscious for, I believe, between twelve and sixteen hours.

"When I awoke, I was alone in a windowless cell, naked, my arms bound with duct tape and my legs shackled. The cell was specially designed for his predilections. A solid steel bed frame with the legs sunk into concrete, eyebolts sunk deep into the walls. Drains in the concrete floor. A very...efficient and utilitarian setup.

“Understand, John, that everything that happened to me there was very intentional, from the beginning. Everything that happened to me was planned. Rajakovic was not some opportunist lacking in self-control.. He was a...a...” Sherlock’s face twists into something harsh, a sneer made grotesque by the low-lit shadows. “A _connoisseur_ , I suppose. He didn’t give in to random dark urges for control or sex. No. He was a dedicated, enthusiastic rapist. He felt no shame or remorse or empathy. He liked to rape, full stop. He had done it many times before me, and if he had remained alive he would have done it many times after.”

Sherlock pauses, drinks, reflects.

“I wonder, now, if Moriarty was ultimately the mastermind behind it all. I mean, I suppose it’s possible that sadistic homosexual rapist crime lords are a dime a dozen in Eastern Europe, or that my ending up in Rajakovic’s clutches was purely coincidental, but in my experiences coincidences are seldom truly that random, and my instincts tell me this doesn’t _feel_ random, not at all. I can’t quite see the connections it would take to take all of this back to Moriarty. I’ve tried, to a certain degree, but if I’m absolutely honest, I find I...I can’t really bring myself to look too closely. 

“But it feels like something he would do, doesn’t it? He was obsessed with me, you and I both know that; however, that being said, I don’t think he was ever interested in sex, _per se,_ with me or with anyone else for that matter. Power and control and humiliation, however? Absolutely. Just like the snipers, just like the remote control bombs...Rape by proxy would have suited him right down to the bones. After all, he never did like to get his hands dirty, did he?”

John finds himself silently agreeing with Sherlock. Every other misery in their lives had been engineered by the now dead psychotic archenemy, after all. Why not this one?

Sherlock takes another swallow from the small bottle in his hand.

“I’m prevaricating, aren’t I,” he says, his voice rough, the edges of his vowels just barely thickened by the first stages of intoxication. “I am, I’m stalling. This is…"

He stops, shakes his head. Takes a deep breath, like a diver preparing for a high plunge.

“When I first awoke, I didn’t...I know it sounds ridiculously, fantastically naive, but I didn’t _understand_ , at first. I thought he was going to interrogate me, beat me, torture me. Possibly just kill me outright. I was reconciled to the likelihood of my death at some point in my travels. I didn’t like the idea, but I had come to accept it as a possible outcome. At least, I thought I had.

“But I didn’t...I never thought...” Sherlock presses his lips together tightly for a moment. “When I understood what he intended, I wasn’t afraid at first. I was...incredulous. Angry. Outraged. Who was this person and what made him think he had some kind of right to...”

His voice catches, breaks. He exhales through his nose, closes his eyes, continues.

“And then there comes a moment when you realise, my God, this is really going to happen.This terrible, _ludicrous_ thing is really going to happen, and you can’t stop it. You can’t stop him.”

John doesn’t miss how Sherlock slips into distancing second person without seeming to notice.

“You don’t scream. It hurts, horribly so, like you’re going to rip in two but you won’t give him the satisfaction of making you scream. You wouldn’t scream if he was breaking your bones, so you won’t scream now. You’ll bite through your lip, but you won’t scream.”

“And then, after that first time. After he's _finished_ with you. You're certain your life is about to end in that room. You wait for the bullet to the back of your head as you lie there, chained to the floor, naked and torn and bleeding.

“But that doesn’t happen. And then comes the next time, and the time after that, and you began to understand that it...won’t. 

“You could be melodramatic, and say the thought of that is worse. But of course that’s not true. Human beings will endure anything to survive, after all. But you think it, and more than once.”

He closes his eyes and drinks, his hands visibly shaking as he lifts the bottle to his lips. When he opens them again his gaze is blank, staring fixedly at nothing, and it rips John apart inside to think about what horrors Sherlock is reliving in his mind’s eye.

After several long moments Sherlock gives a bit of a shrug, shaking himself out of his momentary trance, and reaches into the pocket of his shirt. John hears the distinctive dry _chhhk_ of a cheap plastic lighter being flicked, and a small yellow flame appears in the dark as Sherlock lights a cigarette.

Any other time John would berate Sherlock at length for smoking in the flat, but right now he is profoundly grateful for anything, even tobacco, that will bring Sherlock a moment of comfort. In fact, John’s fairly certain he could use one himself.

Ever practical in nature, John breaks the fiction of sleeping and fumbles for one of several abandoned tea mugs on Sherlock’s side of the bed. He nudges Sherlock’s shoulder with the stoneware cup. Sherlock accepts the ad hoc ashtray without turning, without acknowledgment. 

Each drag of the B&H lights Sherlock’s face just briefly in a slightly-otherworldly pale orange glow.

John waits.

“The first few times, you struggle. You struggle because it’s hardwired into the most primitive part of your brain. You struggle because your most basic, primitive instincts won’t let you not. You struggle until your brain finally understands the reality of the situation, that struggling is useless, that struggling won’t stop what’s happening, that struggling won’t stop the pain. And then…you shut down. You shut down, you leave your body, you retreat into a safe place where no one can touch you, and whatever is happening to your body is happening to someone else, because you’re not there. It’s just transport, it’s just flesh and skin and it’s just transport and _it doesn’t matter_. So you go passive, you go limp, you stop fighting. You _leave._ ”

Sherlock takes a long, fortifying pull on his cigarette. 

“But even that can’t protect you, not from a truly enterprising rapist. I suppose Rajakovic was the type who didn’t find it much fun to sodomise an empty husk of a human being. A more energetic sort, you know. Enjoyed a challenge.” Sherlock’s lovely lips twist into a hideous caricature of a smile. “I’m sure a spot of bloody, disfiguring torture would have fit the bill, and he certainly hit me and kicked me and threatened me with death on a daily basis, but he never really went all in, never caused any lasting damage, and I figured out early on that he was under instructions from somewhere to keep me alive and more or less in one undamaged piece. The beatings needed to be kept relatively, well, light, nothing that really slaked his thirst for power and control over another human being.”

“So he had to get creative. He began to… “ Sherlock scrubs the fingers of both hands restlessly through his scalp, exhales hard through his nose.

“Rather than merely penetrating an unresisting body, he took a different tack to exert his will. He began to...to stimulate me, before and during, physically coercing my body into arousal. I tried desperately to fight it, to shut down my body’s responses. I did. But I couldn’t...He was able to make me ejaculate against my will, more than once, and then used that fact to taunt me, to humiliate me.”

The horror John feels is powerful, overwhelming, a sudden and sickening sideways lurch in his stomach. For a moment he’s certain he will vomit, but he forces himself to keep still, and a few seconds later the sick clenching wave recedes a bit, enough to allow him to breathe again.

Sherlock takes a final drag from his cigarette, extinguishes it in the dregs of cold tea in the bottom of the cup.

“If you were awake, John, I know what you would say. You would say, _It’s a purely physiological response to stimulus. It’s the autonomous nervous system, the flood of adrenaline, the arousal of fear, the fight or flight reflex._ You would say, _It doesn’t mean anything, Sherlock. It doesn’t mean you wanted it, or enjoyed it._

“And all of that is true. Undoubtedly so. I am fully aware of those things, intellectually speaking. But knowing that doesn’t change a thing about the horror of experiencing physical pleasure at the hands of someone you loathe with every fibre of your being, someone who makes your very flesh want to crawl off your bones.” 

He lights another cigarette with visibly shaking fingers.

“My own body betrayed me so completely, all my naive, arrogant notions about superior discipline and self control utterly demolished. I thought I was better. I thought I was _so much better_ , so far above the tiresome clamour of the physical, the biological.”

Sherlock pulls his knees up to his chest, wraps his arms around them, hugging his own body in unconscious self-protection.

“Those words, John. Those pretentious sentiments...they were the arrogant ramblings of a posh, ignorant twat, the clueless declarations of a sheltered fool.

“I was so very, tragically mistaken about so very many things, but my greatest error was this: there is no such thing as _merely transport_. There is no delineation, no chasm between my body and my mind. There is only...me, and all of me lives in this body, my heart and my brain and whatever it is we choose to call a soul, and I…”

Sherlock’s voice cracks on the last word; he breathes out hard, swipes at wet eyes with the unbuttoned sleeve of his shirt, grasping the cuff of it under folded fingers like a child. 

Something about unstudied gesture slices into John’s heart, bright and burning like the vicious edge of a scalpel, and he has to blink back the tears springing to his own eyes.

“But I digress,” Sherlock says, hoarse voice barely above a whisper, and then tips back another swallow of vodka.

“Over time, once I stopped fighting him, Rajakovic grew more lax. He got lazy about having several guards with him when he came in and out of the room, he got careless about making sure I was tightly restrained, and yet I didn’t fight, didn’t attempt to flee. John, I still let him. I let him and let him and let him. 

“I try to tell myself that I gave in to make him lower his defenses, to lull him into a false sense of security. That I stopped fighting him in order to create an opportunity for escape. It’s partly true, of course. I never stopped gathering data, I never stopped looking for weaknesses I could exploit.

“But you can’t understand, John, how completely your brain shuts down, in order to protect itself, in order to survive. You can’t understand how your world narrows down to four walls, a bed. A hand wrapped around your windpipe as you endure another violation, counting out your life ten seconds at a time, telling yourself can survive this--survive anything--for just ten more seconds. And after awhile, nothing else seems real. Nothing else matters.

“I grew slow, blank, dumb, but I still tried to think, tried to examine my options. I made a plan. I had a shard of glass, hidden in a hairline crack at the base of the wall. I was going to slit his throat, and take down anyone else I could reach before cutting my own. 

“It wasn’t a particularly _goo_ d plan, but it was mine. I visualised it, constantly. I fantasised about it. Thinking about it was one of my most reliable mental escapes.”

John can’t help the short, sharp intake of breath that escapes his lungs.

“I could have done it,” Sherlock mutters, sounding more noticeably drunk than even a few minutes ago. “I could have done it, several times over. I could have. Maybe I should have. But I didn’t. Because...at the bottom of it all, even in the midst of all that horror, I discovered I truly wasn’t ready to die. The will to live is the strongest instinct we have, and even while I was being raped and beaten every day, I still desperately wanted to live.

“But now, safe and sound in London, I wonder. 

“I wonder why I let myself shut down so completely. I wonder why I didn’t fight harder. I wonder why I didn’t stop it sooner. I’m brilliant, I’m _amazing_. So why, John? Why did I let this happen to me?”

John gives up the fiction of sleeping; this question is urgent, a matter of life and death, and John will be damned before he lets Sherlock cut himself open with this kind of self-flagellation for another moment.

“No,” John rasps, voice rough and hoarse from the long silence and the tears.

“John--”

“Supposed to be sleeping, got that, but no. _Hell_ no. I won’t let you blame yourself like this any longer if I can do something about it.”

“What _can_ you do about it?” Sherlock asks, his tone tinged with despair.

“I can tell you the absolute truth,” John replies.

“Which is?”

“Which is that you did exactly what you had to do to survive, and there is no shame or blame in that. None whatsoever, do you understand that? _None_.”

“You don’t know that,” Sherlock mutters. “You don’t.”

“Sherlock, none of this is--”

“--my fault? Is that what you were going to say?” Sherlock’s voice grows strident, angry, demanding. “You weren’t there, were you, except in my addled imagination, so tell me, honestly, how can you know that?”

“Sherlock.--”

“HOW CAN YOU KNOW THAT?” Sherlock roars, throwing the empty vodka flask against the far wall with all of his might.

Unfortunately, being absolute bottom-shelf rotgut, the bottle is made of plastic instead of glass, and rather than smashing dramatically against the wall as Sherlock undoubtedly intended, it bounces harmlessly off the plaster, clattering hollowly to the floor unharmed.

There is a moment of rather poleaxed silence from both men. Then Sherlock sighs, his shoulders sagging just a bit.

“That was...rather less satisfying than I hoped,” he admits.

Then he laughs, just a little, rough and strained and through unshed tears but a laugh just the same, and John can’t help but join him, only for a moment, the unintended humour a momentary respite, a tiny oasis in a parched, endless desert.

“I could get one of Mrs. Hudson’s good teacups instead,” John offers. “You could have a do over.”

Sherlock rakes fingers through disheveled curls, and he shakes his head, the barest ghost of a smile still on his lips. 

“I think I squandered my big cathartic moment,’ he says. “The drama’s all gone out of it now. ”

“Pity, that.”

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock’s smile fades as the moment passes, his mouth again going soft and sad. “John. I meant what I said. How can you know that?”

“Because I know you, inside and out, and I know you survived so you could _win_ , so you could outlast him, outlive him and Moriarty both, you could get out of there and come back to Baker Street.”

John pauses, considers, decides to take a chance.

“You did what you had to do so you could come back to me,” he amends. “I don’t just believe that, I know it, with every fibre of my being, and I’m the world’s only Sherlock Holmes expert, so how about this one time you just... take it on faith. Take _me_ on faith. Okay?”

Sherlock goes quiet, considering. He nods. Just once, decisively.

“Okay. Yes.”

“Thank you for that,” John says. “I mean it.”

“You’re welcome.” 

The quiet that descends is somehow minutely easier, less leaden than before. John debates with himself, but in the end decides to take one last chance.

“Sherlock.”

“Hm?”

“You said before that I’m asleep, and this is all my dream.”

“I did.”

“Well, if this is my dream, I think I would very much like it to end with you coming to bed and sleeping next to me. It’s four a.m., you’re exhausted, and you just polished off 300 milliliters of what I’m hoping, despite the smell, isn’t actually surgical spirit. You need to sleep, and in a proper bed.”

Sherlock goes quiet, doesn’t answer.

“Look, I’ll go upstairs or out to the couch, if that--”

“No,” Sherlock says. “I mean, yes, I mean--okay. I would like you to stay. Just let me--”

He rises a bit unsteadily to his feet.

“Are you gonna be--”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock insists. “Maybe a little-- but no. I’m fine.”

Sherlock carefully makes his way into the loo and closes the door, John listening closely for any concerning thumps or crashes. The toilet flushes, water runs and stops, and Sherlock comes out, lays down on his side of the bed without preamble, fully dressed, atop the coverlet. 

John thinks about stroking his arm, or holding his hand, but decides it’s been far too draining a night to ask for any more than what Sherlock’s already so bravely given to him.

“Good night, Sherlock,” he murmurs, just barely above a hoarse whisper. “Get some sleep, okay?”

A pause. Then, “John?”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“What if I can’t ever...I mean I want to. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to.”

“‘Ever’ is a very long time, and I think it’s far too soon to make any kind of definitive statement like that.”

“But if I can’t. Be absolutely honest, with me and with yourself. Would you still stay here, with me?”

John does what Sherlock asks, and thinks it over carefully, even though he already knows his answer, knows it clear and true, written in 72 point letters across his heart.

“I am very physically attracted to you. I am, I can’t lie about that. I very much would like to be physical with you, to share that with you, And I would be sad that we didn’t get to have that. But you need to know, Sherlock, I loved you with all my heart when I thought we would never be more than best friends. I was always willing to spend my life with you, eager in fact, for reasons that have nothing to do with sex or physical intimacy. So yes. I would stay here with you, forever.”

“You love me?” Sherlock asks, and John hears the unspoken question at the end. 

_Still?_

“Yeah,” John says. “God, of course I love you. I love you more than anything or anyone else in the entire goddamn world, Sherlock, and that’s never, ever going to change.”

Sherlock doesn’t say it back, and John doesn’t expect him too, but his breathing grows tighter, shallower.

He turns on his side, facing John.

“You deserve better.” Sherlock breathes the words out, low and ragged and achingly sad. 

“So do you,” John replies, equally hoarse, throat itchy and dry from an overload of emotion. “So we’re going to _make_ it better, all right?”

Sherlock nods. “All right,” he murmurs, and he’s beginning to sound more than just a little drunk, and very drowsy on top of that.

“You’re exhausted and half pissed,” John murmurs. “Go to sleep, now.”

Sherlock nods and closes his eyes.

John does the same, and he doesn’t think he’ll sleep, he doesn’t think he’ll ever sleep again, but he’s just completely drained, and Sherlock is next to him, his breathing deep and rhythmic and comforting, and John is out cold within minutes.

***

Soon, far too soon, the morning sun shines brightly in the windows and John wakes, alone.

He rises, wanders out to the kitchen to find Sherlock utterly absorbed in whatever experiment he’s currently conducting, looking into the microscope and making cryptic notations in a cheap supermarket notebook.

Sherlock is freshly showered and fully, impeccably dressed to jacket and shoes. His jaw is carefully shaved, hair styled with just a bit of product. 

His slightly puffy, red-rimmed eyes give the only indication that anything at all may be out of the ordinary this morning.

He ignores John entirely, except to grunt and wave off an offer of tea.

John sighs, shakes his head, and goes back into the bedroom to wash up and get dressed for the day ahead of them.

Sherlock meant what he said last night, then, about never speaking directly of it again.

It’s as if the whole thing never happened.

And John could almost accept that, almostdismiss everything shared between them last night as a long, emotional, particularly verbose dream.

He could, if it weren’t for the plastic vodka bottle, lying empty and forgotten on the blue Persian rug, in between the floor lamp and the chest of drawers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve missed you,” John tells him, simple and heartfelt.
> 
> “I know,” Sherlock whispers.
> 
> “Have you come back for good?” John asks.
> 
> Sherlock thinks for a moment. “Not entirely. But I’m--I’m working on it.”
> 
> “I’m glad.”
> 
> “So am I.” Sherlock pulls his head back slightly and gives John a searching look, chins folding up adorably. 
> 
> “But what about you?” he asks. “Are you…” he searches for the right words, fails, parrots John’s words instead. “Have you come back too?”

Over the next few weeks, the pair resume a careful, cautious, somewhat stilted simulacrum of normalcy.

Things are undeniably better, in some ways. 

Every night, to John’s continued surprise, Sherlock comes willingly to bed with him--though John cannot help but note that the space between their bodies, no matter sleeping or waking, seems to be as stringently maintained as the Korean Demilitarized Zone. But still, come to bed he does, and even as distant and awkward as it is, it’s still a momentous gesture of faith and trust from a skittish and distant Sherlock.

Occasionally Sherlock sleeps the night through, surprising John by still being there in the morning, but more often than not a hypervigilant John wakes instantly at the tiny creak and shift of bedsprings at one or two in the morning as a sleepless Sherlock rises to pace, to smoke, to do whatever he does alone in the small hours when reasonable people are tucked up into bed. 

During the day, however, Sherlock is quiet, carefully polite, reserved to the point of being distant. He responds, mostly civilly, to John’s comments and queries but doesn’t initiate conversation himself.

He doesn’t take cases, though John can tell, by the expressions Sherlock makes and the timbre of his annoyed sighs, that Lestrade is texting him on a regular basis. As far as he can determine, Sherlock never replies.

Occasionally Sherlock goes out for a bit, to Bart’s or to Speedy’s or just for a walk to places unknown. He doesn’t always tell John where he’s going, but he is careful to always let John know when to expect him home.

For the most part, though, Sherlock stays home, keeps quiet, keeps to himself. He doesn’t play the violin, or jump on the furniture, or microwave eyeballs, or insist on Nepalese takeaway from a Brixton hole-in-the-wall at 11 pm on a Tuesday night.

He is, however, undoubtedly _trying_ to be easier to live with, to be less difficult and demanding and unkind, and in that narrow way of looking at it, John supposes that yes, things are better.

But underneath it all he’s not himself right now, he’s not _Sherlock_ , which makes things worse, in a very real way, then they were before.

It’s so very difficult for John to just stand by and _watch_ , to just leave Sherlock be, so hard not to hover and fuss over the man he loves when Sherlock is so clearly shaken down his very bones, retreating deep down into himself and trying desperately to regroup, to reclaim his the place he’s made for himself in this world. But as much as it pains John to sit and do nothing, he understands, on an intuitive level he can’t quite put into words, that Sherlock needs time and space to work through these private struggles on his own.

So John waits, patiently, waits although he misses him desperately, misses him in that exquisitely painful way you can only miss someone when they’re sitting in the same room with you yet completely unreachable at the same time.

So, in short: things are better and things are worse and it’s all incredibly painful and difficult, but the two of them endure, silently, as they always do.

Occasionally, when the quiet gets to be too much, John ventures down to Mrs. Hudson’s, partakes of half an herbal soother--round cherry-flavored homemade candies, almost like wine gums but with a sharp, green, almost piney aftertaste--just as a break from the tedium of waiting for the tension to break. 

(It has to be better for him than scotch, he figures, and Lord knows he partook of his fair share of...well, medicinal herbs...in his more youthful days.)

He never takes more than half , for fear he’ll divulge too much, finally give in to his sentimental, romantic nature and spill out his overfull heart to his landlady or worse, to Sherlock himself, demolishing all their hard-won progress.

On this particular afternoon, he can feel Mrs Hudson looking at him, quick glances at the side of his head, clearly debating with herself over whether or not to say whatever’s on her mind. 

Along with their soothers, they’ve developed a bit of a routine, tea and biscuits and Eastenders (John’s favourite) or Coronation Street (Mrs Hudson’s choice--John finds it a bit, well, trashy, if he’s being brutally honest) on the DVR. 

John can feel Mrs. Hudson thinking at him, so he sips his tea, calm and placid, waiting her out.

“So he seems better, then,” she finally says, only it’s not really a statement, it’s a question. 

“He’s eating and sleeping,” John says, by way of agreement.

“And you’re not rowing.”

“No. Not at all. Things are--” John searches for the right words, not willing to overshare but still wanting to be honest with her. “We had a bit of a rough patch, I guess, but--things are better, now. Things are fine.”

“Well, that’s good,” Mrs Hudson says, but she remains unconvinced; John can plainly hear the skepticism in her voice. 

(He can also hear his blood as it pulses through his veins, and the rasp of fabric as he resettles himself back on to the sofa, and something that sounds a lot like The Who’s _Quadrophenia_ from somewhere on the street outside, and Sherlock clomping around upstairs like the inelegant water buffalo he can sometimes be, which is surprising for someone so slender and generally graceful as Sherlock, with his long, lovely dancer’s limbs, lean but muscled in just the right places, and oh _Christ,_ this batch of soothers is quite a bit stronger than he initially thought--)

“--isn’t that right?” 

“I’m sorry?” John says, forcing his thoughts away from Sherlock’s physical attributes, bringing his more-than-slightly scattered attention back to the conversation at hand.

“I said,” Mrs Hudson repeats, with the tiniest edge of irritation, “I think he just needs time to settle in, get used to the two of you back to how it used to be. That’s all it is, don’t you think?”

John knows she’s actually asking another question, one that’s so much closer to the heart of the matter than she’s letting on, but he has no earthly idea how to even begin to answer. Instead, he carefully selects a custard cream biscuit from the open tin on the coffee table, giving the simple task more focus than it generally requires.

“I’m rather tired of soaps,” he says with feigned casualness, deliberately (and clumsily) changing the subject as he picks up the remote. “Maybe a bit of Celebrity Kitchen instead?” 

***

The next morning John is reading the G2 supplement, vaguely considering looking for a pencil and attempting the crossword, when Sherlock comes into the kitchen. He’s crisp and fresh, perfectly coiffed and dressed, looking none the worse for wear after staying up most of the night yet again.

“There’s coffee,” John says by way of neutral greeting, “but we’ve no milk in, sorry.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but does pluck a clean mug from the drying rack and pour himself a cup, adding two heaping spoonfuls of sugar before settling into the kitchen chair opposite John and picking up the paper. He presents a picture of perfect bland calm that is somehow tweaking John’s radar, making him think it a may all be an act of some sort, a sham to cover stronger, more difficult emotions underneath--but as to the why, he’s honestly got no idea.

“You have plans today?” John asks, curious but not really expecting an answer. “You’re looking far too put together for hanging around the flat.”

“I thought maybe…” Sherlock takes a sip of coffee then sets the mug on the table, inhaling through his nose as if steeling himself for something difficult. “I was wondering if you’d like to take a walk through Regent’s Park.”

John lowers the section of newspaper and regards Sherlock quizzically. 

“A walk?” he asks.

“A form of bipedal locomotion, exclusive to the species _Homo Sapien_. Surely you’ve heard of it.”

“Outdoors.”

“...Yes.”

“With...you?” John asks, quizzically.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Problem?” 

John feels that after the weeks of quiet and distance, Sherlock's sudden request must have a subtext he's too dense to understand, that he must be missing some important dangling thread in this conversation. Such as, “in a clown suit, juggling knives,” or “chased by a box of rabid wolverines I had shipped in from the Arctic Circle.” Which, all right, may be a little unfair to Sherlock, but it’s not like John arrived at this kind of caution overnight with no reason at all.

“No, no problem. Of course not. It’s just...is it for a case?”

Sherlock sighs, put-upon. “It’s not _always_ about a case, John.”

John just looks at him, radiating hard-won skepticism.

“All right, yes,” Sherlock admits, just a touch defensive and maybe a little hurt. “It’s _usually_ about a case. But I just -- the forecast is calling for a sunny day, and I’m a bit sick of these four walls, so I--” he rolls his eyes, blows out a breath. “I just fancied a walk, okay? You certainly needn’t feel _obligated_.”

“No, no, no,” John says, contrite. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m an arse. That sounds--yeah. That sounds lovely, actually. Let me get cleaned up a bit.”

“Fine,” Sherlock murmurs coolly, as if the moment of wounded hurt never happened. He picks up the national news section and makes a bit of a show out of shaking it out then holding it up to read, erecting a barrier between himself and John, effectively ending the conversation.

“Fine,” John repeats back to him. “I mean. Yeah, fine.” He refolds the section he’d been reading, stands, stretches a bit. “So I’ll just--”

“Good,” Sherlock says from behind the wall of newsprint. “We’ll leave in twenty.”

***

It’s turned into one of those uncommonly rare and lovely early spring days, crystalline air and blue skies, still chilly in the shadows yet warm in the sun, daffodils running cheerful yellow riot and the cherry blossoms just beginning to cautiously venture forth their pink furled buds.

The two men walk through Regent’s Park in somewhat strained silence, each keeping his own counsel for the moment. Sherlock isn’t completely oblivious to John, however, moderating his long-legged gait just slightly to keep pace with John’s shorter stride.

John tries to keep himself from worrying, from wondering what this is all about, tries not to think about all the horrifying, crushing, agonising ways Sherlock could sever their ties and end their friendship for good.

He doesn’t want to think Sherlock would do that to him, to them. But he doesn’t know what else to think, so he resolves to think about nothing whatsoever, to keep his mind blank and placid.

Of course, he doesn’t succeed, his anxiety growing with every step, tying his stomach into knots.

With a belly full of dread, John follows Sherlock’s lead to one of the more secluded benches overlooking the Boating Lake.

For a time they watch the swans and ducks gliding across the water. Sherlock wraps his coat around himself, hands sunk deep into his pockets as he gazes silently across the water.

“You’re sure we’re not on a case?” John finally says when he can’t abide the quiet, although that’s not anything even resembling the question he really wants to ask.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, instead pressing his lips together and giving John an unmistakable side-eye.

“Sorry. Right, absolutely not on a case.”

Sherlock shifts, looks down picks a bit of imaginary lint off his trousers.

John is on the brink of saying _Look, Sherlock. Just spill it. Just say it and get it over with, this is unbearable,_ when Sherlock finally speaks.

“I like kissing,” he states baldly, without preamble.

John is so expecting something terrible, something devastating, that he doesn’t quite hear what Sherlock actually says at first. 

“I’m sorry, what?” John says, intelligently.

“I. Like. Kissing,” Sherlock repeats, with just the barest individual emphasis on each word, possibly implying that John may not be the sharpest tool in this particular shed.

“Oh,” John says, any eloquence he might ordinarily possessed swept away by the tidal wave of relief coursing through his body. The apocalypse has been cancelled. Sherlock isn’t leaving. Sherlock isn’t breaking up with him. Sherlock isn’t asking him to pack his things and leave Baker Street.

Most importantly, _Sherlock likes kissing him._

“That’s good,” John says, almost breathless with relief, unable to keep a grin off his face. “In fact, that’s marvellous.”

“It’s…I’m...” Sherlock trails off, uncertain, then starts again. “You’re very good at it. I mean, I could be mistaken. I don’t really have a basis for comparison, since no one other than you has ever. Kissed me. Or even wanted to, if I’m being completely truthful.”

John is quick enough on the uptake to understand what Sherlock is actually telling him in between his spoken words. _No one other than you has ever._ He decides to put that larger revelation aside, for the moment.

“Thank you,” he says, genuinely touched by the slightly odd yet completely heartfelt statement. “I like kissing you too. Very much.”

“I would like to,” Sherlock says. “Again. That is, if you’re open to the idea.”

“I am very open,” John replies. “Wide open. Hugely so.”

“Good,” Sherlock says, nodding.

Another awkward silence stretches out between the two men, both of them seemingly uncertain as to what to do next.

Civilizations rise and fall. Glaciers advance and recede. Aeons pass.

After an absolute bleeding _eternity_ , Sherlock clears his throat pointedly.

John turns his head, looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I was rather hoping you would,” Sherlock tells him.

“What, kiss you?” John asks. “Here?”

Sherlock looks away, blushing, completely adorable and hopelessly awkward in equal measure.

John considers.

“I think,” John says, “though I would absolutely love to kiss you, on balance, I’d really rather if you kissed me.”

From the corner of his eye, John can see the beginnings of the face Sherlock makes when he doesn’t immediately get his way, the familiar wrinkle of confused annoyance forming between his strong dark brows.

“Why?” Sherlock asks, his tone hovering just beyond the border of petulance.

“Because you need to have...full agency, I suppose is the phrase,” John tells him. “You need to be the one to decide what you want, and when, and with whom.”

“I really don’t understand what you’re getting at,” Sherlock says, sounding skeptical, and John cannot blame him; even though the words themselves are completely true and honest, it sounds like the kind of stilted therapy-speak both of them loathe and avoid wherever possible.

“Sure you do,” John says.

“Why are you rolling your eyes at me?” Sherlock demands.

“I didn’t roll my eyes.”

“You _twitched_ them. I saw it.”

“I didn--okay, I did, but not at you, I swear. It’s just...I know, it sounds like such psychobabble shit, okay, but I think it’s important that right now you to make these kinds of decisions fully for yourself.”

“Just saying that is more than a little patronising, you realise, which undermines the entire premise of the statement.”

John shrugs one shoulder, nods. “The world is an imperfect place and all that. Still and all, I would rather you call the shots right now, in terms of...physical interactions.”

“ _Physical interactions_? That’s what we’re calling it?” Sherlock really does roll his eyes, not a mere twitch but a full-on rotation. “John, you cannot be serious right now.”

John exhales sharply, his annoyance flaring unexpectedly. They’re trying to have a moment, and they’re getting in their own goddamned way again, tripping over their own metaphorical feet, and why is everything between them always so damn difficult?

“Sherlock. I know these conversations aren’t easy, but I’m fucking _trying_ , and could you maybe meet me halfway here?”

Sherlock goes quiet and still, fixing his gaze on his feet.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock murmurs after a long moment

The flare of irritation now past, John feels like just an absolute dick.

“I know,” John says. “I’m sorry, too. I ought not to have snapped.”

“This is incredibly difficult,” Sherlock observes, half contrite and half sulky.

“It really is,” John agrees with a sigh. “But it’s necessary, isn’t it?”

Sherlock is silent for a moment, following the trail of his own thoughts.

“You’re right, though,” he finally says, acquiescing. “Absolutely correct in your observations.”

“Well, thank you for that,” John replies in a softer tone. 

As if struck by a sudden thought Sherlock suddenly sits up a little straighter, the expression on his angular face shifting into something John can’t quite parse.

“Do you want me to kiss you...now?” Sherlock asks.

John chuckles a little. “If you’d like, I certainly wouldn’t mind. But you don’t have t-”

He is cut off mid-sentence by Sherlock's warm hands grabbing the sides of his face, his warm, plush mouth pressing against John’s.

Sherlock kisses him ferociously, clumsily, snogging John as if his life depended on it. 

Once the initial moment of surprise passes John just goes with it, hanging on for dear life, trying valiantly to give as good as he’s getting, angling his head to avoid getting his nose smashed flat as Sherlock kisses him, his full lips warm and soft and hungry, the tip of his tongue wet and searching.

After the first few heated moments the kiss grows softer, sweeter, more achingly intimate. Sherlock’s long fingers twine through John’s hair as John’s hands grasp the lapels of his coat, heedless of crushing the expensive wool as he pulls Sherlock closer. The two of them make tiny, involuntary little moans and sighs into each others mouths as they explore each other anew, tongues tasting, teeth nipping gently at swollen lips as they kiss and kiss, gone completely oblivious to where they are, oblivious to everything in the world that isn’t each other.

After long minutes the kiss eases, full snogging gently slowing into gentle nips and pecks, wet mouths chilly in the cool air. After a final nip to Sherlock’s plush lower lip, John breaks away, resting their foreheads against each other as they both gasp a bit for air.

After their breathing calms John pulls back just a little, presses a last chaste kiss onto one sharp cheekbone.

“Hi there,” he murmurs.

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at him, just looks at him for a long moment, an unspoken universe of emotion contained in that silver-green gaze.

“Hello yourself,” he whispers. 

“I’ve missed you,” John tells him, simple and heartfelt.

“I know,” Sherlock whispers.

“Have you come back for good?” John asks.

Sherlock thinks for a moment. “Not entirely. But I’m-- I’m working on it.”

“I’m glad.”

“So am I.” Sherlock pulls his head back slightly and gives John a searching look, chins folding up adorably. 

“But how about you?” he asks. “Are you…” he searches for the right words, fails, parrots John’s words instead. “Have you come back too?”

 _I never left,_ John wants to say, but of course that’s not the truth. Sherlock knows the truth as well as John does, even if neither one of them has any talent for articulating these difficult realities.

He needs to come back from that careful, cautious, condescending place, back from treating Sherlock like a cracked china doll, like a statue fallen from his pedestal. 

He needs to treat Sherlock like the infuriating, brilliant, hilarious, complicated, and deeply weird actual human being he always has been and always will be.

John been a slow learner up to this point, but he gets it now, he understands, and God willing, he thinks maybe for once he’s figured something out before it’s too damn late.

“You look in my eyes,” John says, “And you tell me.”

Sherlock takes him seriously, takes him at his word and gazes, unblinking, into his eyes.

“Good,” Sherlock says. “That’s--yes. That’s good. I’m glad.”

“Sherlock,” John says. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“I just wanted you to know--you could kiss me again,” John tells him. “I mean, if you wanted.”

And Sherlock does, kissing him slow and deep and utterly heartfelt, and something fizzy and incandescent bubbles up inside of John, an irrepressible optimism that maybe, somehow, given enough time and care and patience they might get this right.

***

They kiss and kiss until chapped and chilly lips, full bladders, and parched mouths drive them from their perch, sending them to Costa for trips to the loo and cups of hot coffee to warm their fingers on the trip back to the flat. They barely talk, walking together in a bubble of cosy, easy quiet, something so much different than their earlier silence, shoulders brushing as they lean ever so slightly into each other as they walk, both men savouring these precious, hard-won moments of peaceful closeness.

John miraculously remembers they need milk, and they duck into Speedy’s and pick up a pint before going into the flat.

Once they’re back behind the closed door of their flat, though, John feels the quiet intimacy between them start to cool as Sherlock pulls back, his body language closed off, distant. Maybe it’s all in John’s imagination, maybe he’s projecting, maybe it’s the slightly stale, dusty air of the or the dimness within the four walls compared to the bright sunny day outside, but Sherlock seems to shut down a bit, going quiet and remote as they settle in, tossing coats over the arm of the chair and toeing off their shoes.

It makes John grieve to think that their flat, their beloved 221b, once a shared place of comfort and safety, might no longer be that safe space Sherlock. He silently vows in his heart to do whatever it takes to unravel and cast away those negative associations, make their home a shared haven again.

Whatever it takes, however long it takes. 

Resolving to put the sadder thoughts away for the moment, John focuses instead on filling and switching on the kettle (done out of pure habit, despite having had a cup of hot coffee not twenty minutes earlier) as Sherlock seats himself at his kitchen table workstation, opening his notebook and rummaging through the pile of prepped slides stacked haphazardly next to his microscope.

“Tea first,” John says to the back of Sherlock’s head, tone determinedly upbeat, “and then I need to do some washing up. After that I'll start dinner. I was thinking spag bol, I'm fairly sure we've got the ingredients. Sound good?”

Sherlock hums noncommitally as John sets out mugs and rummages in the cupboards for the the tea tin Mrs. Hudson seems puts away in a different spot every time she tidies the kitchen.

“What are you working on?” he asks, turning away from the still-heating kettle and peering over Sherlock’s shoulder, absentmindedly curling one affectionate hand around the back of his neck, thumb ruffling the fall of overlong curls at his collar.

Sherlock freezes instantly, going tense and still under John’s fingers.

 _Shit_. 

John carefully taking his hand away from Sherlock’s neck. He decides not to make mention of it directly or apologise; instead he turns away to make their tea, with perhaps more attention than hot water and PG Tips really need. He adds a splash of milk to each, three heaping spoonfuls of sugar to one, then mashes the teabags with a spoon against the rim of the mug before tossing them in the bin.

He sets Sherlock’s mug down carefully on the table, close enough to hand for him to reach easily but not so close as to risk knocking it over and ruining his notes.

Sherlock looks into the eyepiece as he adjusts his microscope, but John can clearly see how he’s shamming, pretending to work in order to avoid making eye contact or conversation.

John sighs just a little, sits down in the chair opposite. He brings his own mug to his lips, blows across the surface of his tea, takes a sip of the still almost-scalding beverage before speaking.

“I wasn’t thinking, a minute ago,” he said. “I apologise.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock replies with a false, infuriating blandness.

John sips his tea, corrals his irritation, and thinks for a moment before speaking.

“I’ve an idea,” he says. “You don’t have to answer, just-- I think if you made a list, it would help me. You could write down what is or isn’t okay, or where you don’t like to be touched, and then I’d know and we wouldn’t have to sit around and talk about...things, but I’d know better how to proceed.”

Sherlock doesn’t look up, but he tilts his head minutely and shrugs one shoulder, indicating his still-skeptical, conditional acceptance of the idea.

John nods and rises, resisting the fleeting but powerful desire to press a kiss into dark curls. He hopes that soon he will be able to act on such simple, affectionate impulses, without anxiety or fear of spooking a still deeply unsettled Sherlock--but it’s not up to him, and he’s resolved to work within the framework and limits Sherlock sets.

“My sauce is never as good as yours,” John says, deliberately changing the subject. “Care to help?” 

John would swear he can almost see Sherlock mentally debate whether to respond or to ignore him, and his heart lifts more than a little when Sherlock shifts slightly in his chair, turning his torso just incrementally towards John.

“I suppose I must,” Sherlock sighs in mock annoyance, “if only to keep you from adding milk to the ragu. Honestly, John. It’s a _crime_.”

“Nigel Slater adds milk to his.”

“Who?”

“Chef on telly.”

Sherlock looks up at John, his lips pursed together in a moue of disdain as he waves a dismissive hand.

“I don’t know who this Nigel Slater is, but he’s clearly an idiot,” he sniffs, but John doesn’t miss the tiny spark of amused, teasing warmth in those pale eyes. “Milk and tomato on pasta at the same time violates several critical laws of nature and must be fought against at every turn by those of us possessing superior palates and good judgment.”

“What about penne alla vodka? You l _ove_ that.” 

“Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, John,” Sherlock intones loftily.

“Then get up off your arse and prove you possess the larger mind and superior, dairy-free technique, you condescending git,” John replies, his tone light and bantering. 

“Quite big of you to concede my point, despite the insults,” Sherlock murmurs. He drains his tea, then closes the notebook and rises from his chair, carefully folding his shirtsleeves up to his elbows before favouring John with a small but genuine smile.“You clearly cannot be allowed to run amok in the kitchen, committing random acts of needless dairy.”

“Good thing I have you to keep me right, then,” John says.

“Isn’t it, though?” Sherlock replies, opening the cupboard underneath the toaster and pulling out a large sauté pan.

***

Two mornings later, John wakes early to find Sherlock’s side of the bed empty and cool and the flat silent.

Stumbling blearily into the loo to piss and brush his teeth, John finds a handwritten list, wedged into one of the metal brackets of the bathroom mirror. It’s written on the back of a recent Amazon packing slip (25 feet of aquarium tubing, three kilos of polymer clay, and ten yards of nylon mesh screening-- the mind, it boggles) in black fine-tipped marker, the words penned in Sherlock’s distinctive, oversize looping scrawl.

**Things that are okay:**

Kissing--mouth, face, neck. 

Hugging (If surprised, I may not respond immediately or at all, but it is still acceptable)

Touching/Holding hands

Touching/stroking front of hair only

Touching upper body, over clothing

 **Things That Are Not Okay:** _(Underlined with two thick black slashes)_

Approaching/touching from behind without asking

Touching back of head/neck/hair

Touching lower body at all, even over clothing

Anything not on this list, please operate on the assumption it is not acceptable. Asking is encouraged; however, understand I may not answer.--SH

P.S. On an errand to a catering supply shop on Shaftesbury. Inexplicably, neither Tesco nor Sainsbury’s carries 4.5 inch multicolour plastic cocktail forks in the large quantities I require. --SH

John reads the list (and its endearingly verbose, slightly baffling postscript) over, slowly, three times, committing each word carefully to memory, the narrative of pain and fear contained in between between each scribbled line another sharp-edged ache, stabbing into him somewhere above his solar plexus. 

He takes a deep breath, exhales, rides out the wave of guilt and regret, allowing it to crest and then recede, shrinking back down to something manageable, something he can (has to) learn to live with. 

As the moment passes John is struck by the sudden, irrational desire to press the crumpled bit of paper to his lips, but even in the total privacy of the bathroom the thought seems ridiculously overwrought, melodramatically sentimental and horrendously mortifying.

So instead of giving in to such a ridiculous impulse, he carefully folds the slip into a small square, smoothing each folded edge with a careful, gentle stroke of his thumb.

(And right there, that’s John deepest darkest secret, isn’t it, far more carefully concealed and zealously guarded than he ever kept anything else, even his attraction to his own gender: in his most private of hearts, John Watson is a hopeless, ridiculous romantic. He’s tender and gentle and achingly sentimental, and he’d rather parade naked around Piccadilly Circus than admit to any of this out loud. He’s spent the past five years desperately trying to hide this side of himself from Sherlock’s preternatural powers of observation, terrified that Sherlock would use this knowledge as a weapon to hurt him or cut him down--or worst thought of all, that he would find John’s sentimental weakness so contemptible, so ridiculous that he would summarily toss him aside.

Lately, though, John has come to wonder--no, come to _know_ \--that underneath Sherlock’s pose of superior, unsentimental, dismissive coldness there beats a foolishly tender, romantic heart not so very unlike his own, and that deep inside Sherlock may be every bit as secretly inclined towards gooey, dumb sentimentality, as John, as inclined towards sappy love songs and plush teddy bears and balloon bouquets and beach strolls at sunset and all that romantic rot, and twice or ten times as afraid of the mortification of being caught out indulging in such sentimental tripe. Knowing this truth isn’t the same as knowing what to do about it, of course, and with the conflict and messiness and trauma of the past few years still permeating their lives, John is not really ready to do anything yet with this newfound understanding of the hows and whys of Sherlock’s heart. Still, he _knows_ , even if Sherlock doesn’t yet know that he knows, and he supposes that is a place to start, at least.)

John comes back to reality, catching himself moonily gazing into the bathroom mirror with unfocused eyes, and he shakes himself out of his wandering thoughts, giving an eye roll and a bit of a laugh at his own foolishness. 

_Enough of this,_ John tells himself, and very deliberately sets aside his overwrought mental meanderings and focuses instead on the very mundane tasks in front of him--brushing his teeth, shaving and dressing and making coffee. After that he most likely needs to go out and do shopping, because while Sherlock is attending to plastic cocktail forks with all due diligence, they’re running low on loo paper and kitchen roll and John is fairly certain there’s nothing left in the refrigerator that isn’t either something long-deceased and nicked from Bart's or a mysterious, toxic goo from God only knows where.

But after right now, after the tasks that keep him centred and focused are complete, there will be the later.

And in that later, after coffee and shopping and laundry and tidying up, John will look at that list again, then carefully refold that bit of paper and tuck it into his battered wallet for safekeeping. He will guard over that precious token of the trust Sherlock has placed in him, and he will feel the weight of it, the responsibility for his safekeeping a physical thing sitting heavy on his chest, pressing into his heart.

***

“Come watch something on telly,” John asks from the kitchen doorway. 

It’s after dinner, and Sherlock is caught up in one of his mad projects, circling the kitchen table, looping tubing around the light fixture and across the back of one kitchen chair.

“I’m--” Sherlock starts, and by the look on his face, John knows he is about to reflexively brush him off. He’s already working up a Plan B, mentally cataloguing how best to talk him round, when he sees Sherlock stop, pause, reconsider.

John can tell the exact moment he changes his mind. Something in the set of Sherlock’s shoulders relaxes, ever so slightly, as the ghost of a grin touches his lips.

“I could deal with a mindless car chase or two, I suppose, if I get to spend it in your company,” he says, and he probably intends for the words to come out sarcastic but instead there’s a soft fondness there that gives John a warm, glowy feeling inside.

“Well,” John replies with a teasingly raised eyebrow, “I was thinking Bergman or Truffaut, but if you’ve got your heart set on car chases, I guess I could sit through _Fast and Furious 6_ for you.”

“How gracious of you to accommodate my plebeian tastes,” Sherlock says, bending to twine the last loop of tubing around the leg of one of the kitchen chairs. He pulls bit of a face as he stands, puts his hands on his lower back and twists, making his spine audibly crack and pop.

While the sound of it serves as a reminder to John that neither one of them are exactly young these days, he can’t help but briefly take notice of the flex of Sherlock’s taut, slender obliques just above the waistband of his black trousers. 

Though it verges on ridiculous to still feel this rush of tingling heat at watching Sherlock in motion, after all these years, John honestly doubts he’ll ever stop noticing. He’ll still be blatantly eyeing up Sherlock’s lovely frame well into their senior years, if he has any say in the matter.

If Sherlock catches the moment of fairly obvious ogling, he doesn’t make mention of it. “Out and about all day,” he says. “Give me ten minutes to shower and change?” 

“That’s fine,” John replies by way of agreement. “I think I’m tired of tea. Fizzy lemonade instead?”

“None for me, thanks,” Sherlock replies before turning and disappearing into the bedroom.

John takes a moment to go into the lounge and move the telly onto the desk for ideal viewing, then returns to the kitchen to fetch two bottles of lemonade from the fridge--John’s been down this road enough times to know almost every time Sherlock refuses a beverage he will proceed to drink all of John’s without compunction--and find a package of microwave popcorn, setting it to pop as he waits for Sherlock.

Sherlock takes just a little more than ten minutes, but finally he pads barefoot back into the kitchen, hair damp and smelling of expensive, citrusy shampoo. He’s wearing oft-washed, too-short grey track bottoms and a tee that would be turned away from any self-respecting charity shop, topping the ensemble with a silk dressing gown that certainly cost something well north of three hundred quid.

“Take this,” John says, handing him the bag of popcorn, “and I’ll bring the drinks.”

Sherlock nods, takes the bag of popcorn and goes into the sitting room. John follows, carrying the lemonades. 

Sherlock deposits the bag of the popcorn on the coffee table and settles into the corner of the sofa, knees pulled up to his chest, the body language perhaps not conscious but still unmistakeable: _off limits_. John takes his seat at the opposite end of the sofa, careful to keep their personal spaces separate as he puts down the bottles, picks up the remote, and queues up the movie.

As the opening sequence to the movie begins, John finds his attention wandering away from the loud, frenetic action scenes unfolding on the television. He thinks instead about the list, about the actions Sherlock had marked as “okay,” about how a few words scribbled on the back of a piece of scrap paper represented a such an enormous emotional risk on Sherlock’s part .

Decides, on impulse, to take a risk of his own.

John rises from the couch, crosses the room to his chair and grabs the tartan throw from the back before returning to his space on the couch, wrapping the slightly tatty blanket around his shoulders and reaching for the popcorn on the coffee table with his right hand.

He unfolds his left arm, hand holding the corner of the blanket open in invitation.

“Share with me?” he asks, glancing sidelong at Sherlock but avoiding eye contact.

Sherlock hesitates for a moment, the look of longing indecision on his face somehow reminding John a bit of a half-feral alley cat just before it decides to give in and allows itself the luxury of being petted. 

Then he acquiesces, scooting across the worn leather of the sofa, pressing himself into John’s side without hesitation, and John wraps his arm around his narrow, slightly bony shoulders, enfolding him in the scratchy-soft wool of the blanket.

Sherlock gives a tiny sigh and shifts his whole body downwards so he can rest his head on John’s shoulder. His entire body relaxes as he curls into John’s side, and it feels almost like an exhale of a long-held breath.

The warm, slightly citrusy scent of his freshly-washed hair fills John’s nostrils, setting his limbic system alight. John resists the impulse to turn his head bury his nose into those dark curls, settling for curling his fingers just a little more snugly into the soft bit of flesh covering his wiry upper arm.

He offers the bag to Sherlock. “Popcorn?”

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs as he takes a single kernel from the bag, places it carefully on his tongue in the strange, fussy way he has, and rather than finding it completely annoying as he usually does, it strikes John as inexplicably sweet and endearing.

**

John rouses from a floaty half-drowse as the credits begin to roll.

He missed easily the last third of the movie. He really couldn’t care less. Vin Diesel and Paul Walker stole a bunch of cars and got away with it. He’s basically seen the same movie five times previous, anyhow.

John’s real reason for wanting to watch a movie is completely relaxed against him, his weight surprisingly heavy and slack, his breathing deep and even.

“Are you asleep ?” he asks quietly.

“Mmmf,” Sherlock mumbles into John’s shirt before sitting up a little, shaking his sleep-rumpled head. “No. ‘Course not.”

“Sure you’re not,” John murmurs affectionately. “C’mon, sleepyhead. Let’s go to bed.”

“Mmmmmmkay,” Sherlock slurs, not really awake enough to put up a token protest.

John rises, leaves the empty bottles and greasy empty popcorn bag on the coffee table to deal with tomorrow as he gently takes his Sherlock’s hand, tugs him to his feet. He leads him into the bedroom, then gives the side of his arm a gentle nudge towards the loo.

“You first,” he murmurs. 

Sherlock nods, shambling blearily into the bathroom and flipping on the light before closing the frosted glass door.

John turns on the small bedside lamp, then pulls out his mobile and plugs it in on the charger on top of the dresser. He’s pulling off his jumper and jeans, leaving on his usual night wear of pants and vest, when the sound of running water stops and Sherlock emerges from the bathroom.

John ducks into the loo, taking a quick piss before washing his hands and splashing a palmful of cold water on his face, then swiping a toothbrush hastily around his mouth, forgoing his usual careful brushing and flossing in favour of expedience. 

He flicks off the light over the bathroom sink and returns to the bedroom, crossing the room on bare feet to slip into bed beside Sherlock's warm frame.

Sherlock is curled on his side, facing John, his eyes closed, the crows-feet that are beginning to etch themselves deep gone smooth and relaxed.

For a moment John thinks Sherlock’s already asleep--then his eyes open, just a bit, and he regards John with a sleepy, heavy-lidded gaze, his defenses down, pupils wide and dark and irises luminous silver-blue in the low light.

John loves him so much it hurts. It _aches_.

“Can I kiss you goodnight?” John asks, the words tumbling out before he think better of it, before he can stop himself.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs. So John does.

He truly does intend for it to be a simple good night kiss, a chaste token of closeness and affection, but Sherlock’s mouth is warm and soft against his, and when he turns his head and his lips part just slightly in invitation John can help but respond, pressing forward, deepening the kiss, the tip of his tongue slipping into Sherlock’s mouth, warm and slightly minty from toothpaste. Sherlock sighs just a little, his hand coming up to cup the back of John’s head, thumb stroking his hair as they kiss, mouths growing wet as their tongues meet with increased urgency.

John’s sleepy, gentle affection is quickly eclipsed by the heat of lust building in his belly, waves of liquid heat rippling outward, every nerve alight with desire, with pure want for this lovely man. Right on the heels of his rapidly building desire, though is a guilty niggling worry about feeling this way about Sherlock so soon on the heels of their painful, difficult conversation and the confessions of the night before, his conscience telling him not to risk damaging the delicate and fragile bridge they’ve constructed with weight of those kinds of feelings.

He breaks the kiss, pulls back a bit.

“Are you--” he starts.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says, cutting him off. “More than fine. And if I’m not, I’ll let you know. Please, John. Just kiss me.”

John nods and kisses him again, pushing his worries aside and kissing Sherlock the way he deserves to be kissed, with single-minded devotion, determined to show him with this simple physical act everything Sherlock means to him. 

Sherlock sighs a little into his mouth as he reaches for John’s hand, places it on the dip of his waist, and John takes the hint, pulls him closer, reveling in the feel of him, taut muscle and warm skin under the soft cotton knit of his well-worn tee. He runs his hand up Sherlock’s back, feeling the indentations of each vertebrae, the flex and pull of each muscle as he slides his mouth across the sandpaper stubble of Sherlock’s sharp jaw as Sherlock’s fingers stroke up his thigh, curl around his hip.

The heat of desire builds, becomes a physical pressure as John’s cock fills with hot blood, thickens and fills. He grows achingly hard, the soft cotton of his boxer briefs becoming a rough, arousing friction. His thinking grows clouded, hazy, obscured by the insistent need to give in to his most base instincts, to flex and thrust his hips, to push and rut against something, anything, the clamour of lust growing louder and louder--

But that’s not what Sherlock needs from him.

John takes a deep calming breath, stills the restless motion of his fingertips stroking Sherlock’s back. “I think,” he murmurs into Sherlock’s ear. “we should probably stop this, or I’m going to get too worked up to be able to sleep.”

Sherlock sighs, quiet and soft. “You’re probably right,” he replies, his voice low and roughened.

Though he’s reluctant to let go of Sherlock, John nods and rolls away and onto his back, taking a deep, hopefully calming breath.

“Sorry,” John says, sincerely contrite. “I am. I just--” he trails off, not knowing how to finish that sentence, not knowing how to navigate the minefield that this bedroom has become and hating himself, just a little, for even having that thought.

They are both quiet for a moment, each processing their own private thoughts.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Yes?”

“You still--” Sherlock’s voice is wavering, uncertain. “Even now, you still. Find yourself worked up. Over me?”

John laughs, a little, in amused disbelief. “Jesus, Sherlock. Yes. God, yes. I always have, since the beginning. Since day one, even when I still didn’t quite understand what I was feeling, I--” He blows out a breath, gestures down his body with his right hand. “Well, you’re the consulting detective here. You can easily deduce the truth with your own two eyes, I wager.”

Sherlock’s pale eyes flick downward, briefly; one eyebrow twitches as he regards the undeniable outline of John’s sizable erection tenting the fabric of his snug dark blue pants. He swallows, reflexively, once, twice. Licks dry lips.

“A question,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Of course.”

“When you find yourself, well. Worked up. Over me. What do you generally do about it?”

John looks at him, squinting in a slightly suspicious confusion. 

“Are you taking the piss?” he asks.

“Not at all,” Sherlock says, sincere in that quiet way he sometimes has.

“Okay. So, I, um.” John exhales, can feel his cheeks heating up with embarrassment. _Doctor,_ he reminds himself. _Actual medical doctor. Basic biology here, no need for blushing and stammering like a bloody teenager._ “I take care of it. You know. On my own.” 

“Ah,” Sherlock replies, inscrutable.

“What about you?” John asks, his voice coming out a shade more confrontational than he really intends, betraying his self-consciousness.“What you do about it?” 

There is silence between them for a moment.

“I didn’t, for many years, ” Sherlock confesses quietly. “Not since early in uni, to be more precise. At the time, I believed it a waste of time and energy that could be directed into other pursuits.”

“For many years,” John murmurs.

“Yes.”

“But then something changed your mind.”

“Not so sure it was my _mind_ that changed, precisely speaking, but yes. Obviously.”

“What changed it?”

“ _You_ ,” Sherlock sighs. “Your arrival in my life changed my mind on a good many topics. In many confusing, frustrating, eye-opening ways.”

“I did?” John asks. It’s the first time, really, that Sherlock has alluded directly to feeling physical attraction to him.

“You did.” Sherlock pauses. “You _do_.”

“Still?” John asks, unconsciously echoing Sherlock’s earlier words.

“Still,” Sherlock confirms. “But in the spirit of total honesty, I should tell you that I don’t, I mean I haven’t, not since I came back. It just...It’s not a lack of wanting. I think about it. I’ve even tried, a few times. But it’s just too...it just seemed, on balance, to be easier to avoid the entire issue altogether. I’m well versed in repressing those kinds of thoughts, so it was--not _easy_ , exactly, but rather, a familiar path. But then this happened, you and I, something I never ever thought I would ever get to have, and I--” He exhales. “If I’m being completely honest, and at this point I might as well be, I _do_ want. I know I do. But I don’t really know what it is I want anymore, or how to get there from here.”

Sherlock falls silent and just looks at him, pale eyes direct and unblinking. 

John has absolutely no idea what he should say or do.

“It’s okay,” he says, after a moment, feeling like he’s fumbling this a bit. He places a tentative hand on the crook of Sherlock’s arm. “It’s all...I’ve told you it’s all okay, and it is. You don’t have to--”

“John,” Sherlock says, cutting him off. “Remember how you asked me for a list?”

“Course I do.”

“I think--” and now John is almost certain Sherlock is the one who’s blushing, the pink flush visible even in the low lamplight. “I said I don’t know what I want , but that’s not quite true. I do know one thing I want.”

“Anything at all,” John says, meaning it. “Anything you want.”

“Thinking about you doing that. Masturbating, and thinking about me. That...to be blunt, the idea of that. It intrigues me.”

“Okay,” John answers, his rising inflection indicating a query.

“And...Not tonight, it’s more of a hypothetical really but, some time. I’d like to. Well, I’d like to observe.”

“You mean...watch me?” John asks, surprised.

Sherlock nods, eyes cast down, not quite daring to look fully at John. He’s definitely blushing now, furiously so, pale cheeks burning crimson even in the dim light of the streetlamps.

John shrugs a shoulder, nods once. 

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. That would be...That’s fine.”

“Really?” Sherlock asks, looking up, eyes suggesting surprise at John’s sanguine acceptance of his proposal

“Really and truly,” John replies. “Anything you want, you can have, Sherlock. _Anything._ I meant that.” He pauses, considers, decides to go all in. “And if we’re being totally honest here, I also find the idea...intriguing.”

“That’s good,” Sherlock says, and he gives John a genuine, almost mischievous grin that makes him look impossibly, heartbreakingly young. “That’s outstanding.”

“I look forward to it,” John tells him, meaning it.

“Me as well,” Sherlock replies, with a touching sincerity.

The two spend a long moment looking at each other, their gazes mutually heated and searching, and John wonders briefly if Sherlock might make good on his request tonight, despite his words to the contrary just minutes earlier.

The moment is broken, however, when Sherlock gives a huge, involuntary, jaw-cracking yawn, which of course makes John yawn sympathetically in turn.

“Not tonight, though,” John says, then gives another, slightly smaller yawn. “Honestly, I think we’re both far too tired to give an undertaking like that the full attention it deserves.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock replies. “But soon, I hope?”

“Yes,” John replies. “Whenever you decide.” He raises himself up on one elbow, leans forward to press a final kiss--this one brief and chaste--to Sherlock’s warm mouth. “And I am really, truly looking forward to it, but we both need to go to sleep, now. All right?”

Sherlock nods, snuggling down against John with a sigh, his eyes already drifting shut, a trace of his lovely smile still lingering on his lips.

John follows suit, though he has a bit of a harder time of it, pardon the pun, as Sherlock’s request rattles around in his brain, the promise of it lurking just over the visible horizon, tugging insistently at his tired and somewhat hesitant, but still easily-roused carnal imagination.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the patient and thorough Mycapeisplaid, who shirked her family gift-wrapping duties to sneak off and beta this chapter instead. <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dizzy and almost overwhelmed with sensation, John breaks the kiss, sliding wet lips along the rough end-of-day stubble along Sherlock’s jawline as Sherlock’s hands pull him in even closer, roam restlessly up and down his back in unspoken request.
> 
> “What do you want?” John breathes into his ear. “Anything. You can have anything. Just tell me.”
> 
> Sherlock’s arms tighten around him
> 
> “I want you to take off your clothes,” Sherlock says, and his deep voice is roughened at the edges but assured, with a quiet certainty John hasn’t heard in weeks. “Will you do that for me, John?”

Both Sherlock and John are in desperate need of a long, lazy lie-in, so neither one of them stirs until well after ten am the next day.

As they finally rise and scratch and stretch and brush teeth and blearily prepare to meet the day, the late-morning sunlight slants yellow through dusty windows as the scent of brewing coffee drifts through the flat. A plate of currant scones awaits them on the kitchen table, thanks to their industrious not-their-housekeeper whose loving attention keeps the two of them halfway fed and relatively free from squalor.

Music drifts up the steps, just at the threshold of hearing--some modern, dreadful easy listening pop, one of the Idol blokes or somesuch. 

The two of them don’t talk. It doesn’t feel necessary.

As the morning ambles towards noon, both men are still in their night clothes, lazy and a bit disheveled as they lounge contentedly about the flat, sipping coffee. Sherlock stretches out on the sofa, pokes at his laptop as John sits in his armchair and reads a novel on his iPad, both men savouring the easy quiet that’s settled over them this morning.

Despite the quiet, John can’t help an odd, growing certainty that the peaceful ease of the day is a bit of a set-up, somehow, that something big is just around the corner--and when the doorbell rings, it’s such a perfect coda to the scene that he finds he was almost expecting it.

The chimes ring out in Lestrade’s distinctive pattern--three half-second bursts, one after the other in rapid succession, heavy initial pressure on the doorbell. The nimble click of Mrs Hudson’s heels tapping faintly down the hallway precedes the slight creak of the opening front door; the reedy tones of her greeting are met with the deeper rumble of Lestrade’s clipped yet polite response.

“Case,” John murmurs, stating the obvious, as is always his role in such things.

The heavy tread of the DI’s oxfords on the risers, each step somehow conveying a sense of existential exhaustion even though it’s not yet noon--John knows the timbre of his tread promises a solid seven of a case, perhaps even an eight.

Sherlock’s face is calm, placid, smooth as marble, but one eyebrow twitches upward just minutely, and when he lifts his eyes to look at John, the spark of excitement in them is unmistakable.

“Indeed,” Sherlock replies evenly.

Greg strides through the open doorway without bothering to knock. He looks exhausted. The bags under his eyes are pronounced, his suit appearing even more rumpled and slept-in than usual.

“Chippy owner in Hounslow,” he announces by way of a greeting. “Found him dead in the kitchen of his shop.”

“Boring,” Sherlock sighs. “Not worth your trip, Lieutenant, sorry to say.”

“He was fried.” 

Sherlock’s mouth is already open to say something dismissive, of course; he closes it, squints, looks up at Lestrade.

“Pardon?”

“He was _fried_. Dismembered, batter-dipped, and...fried. Head, limbs, hands and feet, cooked in hot fat and laid out neatly on the counter. Torso’s gone missing. Suppose it wouldn’t fit in the basket. On top of that, the surveillance tapes show nothing. One minute an empty kitchen, the next minute, chippy owner parts all laid out on the counter like a…” Lestrade runs a hand through rumpled silver hair, looking for an appropriate metaphor. “Well, like a pizza crunch supper.”

All three men are silent for a moment, silently contemplating the mental image conjured by Lestrade’s words.

 _Yep,_ John thinks, carefully maintaining his exterior calm despite the growing tingle of excitement in his chest, the one he always feels at the prospect of a really gruesomely promising case. _Definitely an eight._

“Hmmm,” Sherlock answers, the syllable a low purr in his throat. He turns his head halfway back to look at John. John returns his eyes to his tablet, shamming rapt attention to his subpar novel, not wanting to spoil Sherlock’s act for Lestrade by appearing overeager.

“What do you think, John?” Sherlock asks, pointedly.

“Mmm,” John says, feigning a bored, disinterested tone as he swipes to turn a page. “Sounds like he’s a bit beyond needing a doctor, don’t you think?”

“John,” Sherlock says, his voice a soft rumble, somehow pleading and amused at the same time.

After another moment John sighs, nods in acceptance, and puts his tablet aside.

“Well, if you think so,” he says blandly, careful not to show his elation--it’s been _ages_ since they’ve had a case this promising--and knowing Sherlock can see it anyway, and shares the feeling.

“Lucky for you, Lieutenant,” Sherlock says, levering himself up and off the sofa with a frankly annoying amount of limber grace, “We’ve nothing else on this afternoon. Give me the address, and we’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

***

After two days of exhaustion, no sleep, and pounding what feels like every single pavement across West London, the case culminates in a foot chase through the grimmest crevice of Slough, and the suspect--one Ned Macgregor, skinny, spotty and stereotypically Glaswegian--disappearing into the hulk of a dark, damp abandoned warehouse.

"Check the back of the building," Sherlock murmurs to John under his breath. "I'll search the shipping containers." Before John can make any number of reasonable objections Sherlock is gone, slipped off into the inky gloom of the hulking building without another word.

"Clearly you never watched bloody Saturday cartoons,” John mutters to an already departed Sherlock, “because Scooby Doo would have taught you that splitting up is always, categorically, a horrible bloody idea." 

Despite his annoyance, John does as Sherlock asked--his way, _always_ his way even when it’s not a good idea--and methodically checks the entrances at the rear of the building, shining his penlight on the locks and hinges of every door looking for signs of egress.

He finds none. Which means--

"If we know he came in through the single broken front window," John thinks aloud, "but he didn't go out that way, and the back exits are untouched--"

 _Yes, John,_ Sherlock’s voice in his head murmurs, low and a bit grimly amused. _He's still in the building. Brilliant deduction, really top notch._

"Fuck," he swears under his breath. He pockets the penlight, reaches for the Sig Sauer tucked into the back of his trousers, flicking off the safety as he makes his way into the main storage area, stepping as quickly and quietly as he can, in order not to attract the attention of the suspect who is--

 _About fifteen feet away,_ John discovers as he tiptoes around the corner of a two-metre tall wooden shipping crate. 

Ned Macgregor looks desperate, exhausted, pale enough to practically glow in the gloom of the warehouse. He’s not yet aware of John’s presence, his attention currently occupied with holding a large, lethally sharp butcher knife to Sherlock Holmes’ throat.

In an instant the Sig is raised, pointed at the suspect’s head, unwavering in John’s rock-steady grip.

“Let him go,” John says, “and maybe, if you’re very lucky, I won’t blow your brains out.”

Sherlock is pale, unmoving in Macgregor’s grasp. He’s outwardly composed; anyone else would believe him calm, perhaps even bored, but John can see the fear skittering at the very back of his wide, unblinking eyes.

It tells him Macgregor is unmoored, aggressive, unpredictable, and overall very bad news, indeed.

“You know I’ve done this before,” Macgregor sneers, eyes wild as he digs the point of the blade incrementally deeper into the thin pale skin of Sherlock’s throat, just above the blue fabric of his knotted scarf. “One little slice, and and he’ll be bleeding out at your feet before you even pull the trigger.”

“Do you want to test that theory?” John asks. He can feel the rage rising but he channels it into calm focus, his lips pulling back in a feral grin. “Because I’m game if you are.”

His eyes flick to Sherlock’s for the briefest of moments. Despite the edge of fear, Sherlock’s gaze is clear and alert, and the communication passes between them in an instant.

 _I’m ready,_ Sherlock tells him with a look. _Just give me an opening, and I’ll take it._

John smiles--a genuine smile, full of admiration for Sherlock, for his bravery and strength in the face of harm and danger. 

“Let’s play, arsehole,” he snarls, and cocks the trigger--an unnecessary motion, to be sure, the bad cliché in every stupid action movie, but it serves as a perfect momentary distraction. The small clicking noise seems loud in the echoing warehouse, and John sees the man’s shoulders flinch reflexively.

Sherlock takes full advantage of that tiny space of wavering attention; in a lightning fast whirl of long limbs Macgregor is disarmed, the knife clattering harmlessly to the floor as Sherlock spins, elbows the man hard in the solar plexus; as he doubles over in pain Sherlock follows with a precisely-aimed low sweeping kick, knocking his feet straight out from under him.

Macgregor lands hard on his back with a loud, gasping grunt. 

Before the man can recover his breath John practically leaps atop the supine figure, his mind a red blur of crackling rage as he raises the butt of the gun and pistol whips him square across the jaw.

Something crunches, wetly.

“You piece of trash,” John spits, enraged, and hits him again. 

Blood fountains from a split lip as Macgregor moans and sputters under John’s assault

“You vile sodding worthless fucking bastard.” John lands a blow to the side of his head, just above his ear. “How _dare_ you put your filthy hands on him, how dare you touch him, how dare you--”

“John.” 

A strong hand hooks under his right arm, pulls him off the now bloodied and barely conscious man on the ground, and hauls him to his feet. 

“John. You have to stop.” Sherlock shakes him, and not gently. “John, Stop. Stop and breathe, and look at me.” 

The red veil lifts just slightly, enough for John to comprehend Sherlock’s words. His body sags slightly in Sherlock’s shockingly strong grip; the power hidden in that wiry frame still comes as a surprise to John, sometimes.

He nods, obeys, takes a deep breath. He looks up into Sherlock’s worried eyes, sea green touched with silver and blue. 

“He almost--he could have--”

“He didn’t, though,” Sherlock tells him, his voice strong, steady, reassuring. “I’m fine, John.” His hands wrap around the shoulders of John’s jacket, and John almost believes he can feel the heat pouring from his fingertips, penetrating the layers of fabric to warm John down to the bone. “Look at me. I’m alive, and I’m all right.”

John takes a deep, quavering breath. “Yes,” he says. “You are.” He exhales, gets ahold of himself, wills himself to a semblance of calm as he looks up into Sherlock’s eyes. A memory of Sherlock’s elegant, acrobatic takedown of Macgregor flashes into his mind, and he smiles.

“That was...that was amazing,” he tells Sherlock, quietly sincere. “I’ve never seen you move so fast.”

“Eight inches of sharp German steel is quite motivating,” Sherlock offers with a small, sardonic grin.

At the mention of the knife, John’s gaze drops to the shallow horizontal scratch, about two inches long, on the left side of Sherlock’s neck. It’s not deep but it did pierce the skin; as John watches, a single dark ruby trickle of blood slides slowly down the pale skin of Sherlock’s neck.

“Sherlock,” John breathes, moment of warm feeling vanishing, rage spiking back upward even though he knows it’s only a minor wound. “You’re hurt.”

Sherlock’s fingers reach up, swipe away the droplet, examine it with curiosity. He looks back at John, shakes his head minutely. “It’s nothing. Literally a scratch. All right?”

John exhales through his nose, gathers himself, is able to recognise how badly he’s overreacting. “All right,” John replies. “Of course. I just…”

He trails off, uncertain how to finish that sentence.

“I know,” Sherlock murmurs, his voices softening. “I know. I do.” He gives John a small, fond smile. “But we’re both all right now, aren’t we?”

“We are,” John agrees, and something in him really hears, really registers the truth in those three simple words.

_We’re all right._

He can’t help but smile back at Sherlock, his heart suddenly full to overflowing, tender emotions hot and bright in his chest.

They stand motionless for a long, unspooling moment, gazing into each other’s eyes and grinning rather moonily, the badly beaten murderer moaning at their feet completing the romantic tableau.

 _We’re mad, both of us,_ John thinks to himself, but he can’t bring himself to care overmuch at this juncture.

The spell is broken by the scrum of police officers suddenly pouring into the warehouse, their shouting voices and pounding feet echoing throughout the gloom. Sherlock gives a minute shake of his head, recovers his composure. 

“The gun,” he murmurs, _sotto voce._

John nods, stows the weapon in his jacket just as Lestrade comes into view, looking still perpetually harried in a rumpled beige overcoat.

“That’s our man, I gather,” Lestrade says, indicating the moaning man on the floor with a tilt of his head. 

“Indeed he is,” Sherlock replies in a distracted tone, his eyes still fixed on John’s. The look on his face is unmistakable. It’s...heat, and John feels it, viscerally, feels the truth of it in his bones and flesh.

Lestrade brushes past them kneels down and flips the disabled and moaning assailant none too gently on to his front to fasten handcuffs onto his wrists as the man grunts in pain.

“Pistol whipped me,” Macgregor groans. “The short one. Nearly knocked my teeth out, he did.”

“Nonsense,” Lestrade informs him brusquely, voice pitched to carry to all the officers on scene, “I searched Dr Watson thoroughly. He has no weapon.” He looks pointedly up at Sherlock and John. “I’ll take your statements later. Get that cut looked at, and get yourselves home.”

“Only a scratch, no need for medical attention,” Sherlock replies, moving close to John’s side, placing a hand lightly against his elbow, cupping but not quite exactly pressing. “You heard the DI, John. Time for us to go home.”

***

The cab ride home is silent, save for the soft murmur of voices from the talk radio station the cabbie is listening to.

They don’t converse, they don’t touch, but John can somehow still feel the currents of something invisible, something powerful percolating between the two of them. 

The invisible ties that bind them together have been strained by the events of the past weeks, but their connection is stronger than anything that can come between them, stronger than tragedy, stronger than death, even, and right now John is more aware of that mysterious, unbreakable bond than he ever has been before.

Entertaining similar thoughts perhaps, Sherlock is silent for the entire trip back to Baker Street. As they pull up to the kerb in front of their building Sherlock thrusts a banknote at the cabbie, waves off the handful change as he exits the car, John following close on his heels. Sherlock unlocks the door of 221b, holds it open, gestures for John to enter ahead of him.

“Thanks,” John murmurs, ducking his head as he brushes past. 

They’re still not looking at each other, nor are they touching, but the distance between them is not cold or stony; rather, it’s diffident, careful, somehow full of portent as they hang up their coats on the wall hooks with a quiet, focused care. 

John resists the temptation to look back at Sherlock as they mount the seventeen steps to 221b, mainly because he can’t shake the feeling that this...chemical reaction brewing between them is dangerously close to boiling over, and he’s pretty sure whatever may happen next is best saved for the privacy of behind a closed door, for their own senses of propriety as well as their landlady’s delicate sensibilities.

The door to their flat is ajar, the suite of rooms dim and shadowy in the chill grey of a damp, rainy afternoon. Their combined clutter has been tidied a bit and the floors recently cleaned; the scent of lemon cleaner still lingers in the corners.

Sherlock clears his throat, quietly, self-conscious. 

“So should I--” 

"Why don’t you--” John says at the same moment, their words colliding and tumbling over each other.

They both go silent. Sherlock gives him a small sheepish grin, and gestures with a wave of his fingers. _Do continue._

“Why don’t you grab the first shower,” John says, “and I’ll go after, then I’ll take a look at that cut.”

“ _Scratch_ ,” Sherlock corrects him, but his tone is a touch teasing, low and somehow intimate.

“Scratch, yes, fine, but I want to at least look it over and put some antiseptic on it.”

Sherlock nods briefly in assent, then turns away and disappears into the bathroom.

John makes his way into the dark kitchen, flips on the overhead light, fetches a bottle of water from the fridge. As he’s untwisting the cap and taking a long swallow, John finds himself half-listening as the rushing pattering noise of the shower stops and the bathroom door opens and closes, then the soft sound of bureau drawers sliding on their casters as Sherlock fetches clean clothes.

Sherlock reappears in the doorway, dressed in his home uniform of ratty tee and pyjama bottoms.

“That shirt’s ruined,” he says conversationally, accepting the bottle of water John presents to him, drinking deeply before wiping a drop of water from his lower lip. “Shame. I liked it.”

“You have twelve identical shirts--” John begins.

“Eight, actually.”

“Well, that’s one for every day of the week and two for Sundays, so at this rate I think your wardrobe will survive the loss. Anyway, that’s what you get for wearing a white shirt to chase down a serial dismemberer.” John takes another swallow of the water. “How about the suit jacket?” he asks.

“Not so bad. I think it can be salvaged. I’ll take it to the cleaners’ tomorrow.”

John nods, and an awkward silence descends unexpectedly,as they sometimes do, settling itself squarely between them.

“Um...shower’s all yours,” Sherlock finally says, just to break the tension of the moment.

“Right.” John clears his throat. “Good. I’ll just…” John’s sentence trails off as he hands the water bottle to Sherlock. He turns away and heads upstairs to grab some clean clothes; in the strange relationship no-man’s-land where they’ve been dwelling of late, it had seemed far too optimistic and presumptuous to bring any of his things downstairs, despite sleeping in Sherlock’s bed every night. 

He rifles quickly through his bureau drawers to retrieve what he needs, then pads back down the steps and ducks into the bathroom for a quick clean up.

He uses the toilet, then starts the shower running before stripping out of his clothes, grimy with splashes of rancid fryer oil and warehouse crud. He steps under the hot slightly stinging spray, soaps up all over and rinses quickly, resolutely ignoring the flutter of nervous excitement low in his belly, refusing to look down at his ridiculously optimistic cock, dusky pink and already thickening slightly between his legs.

“Don’t start getting frisky on me, mate,” he mutters out loud before reminding himself of two things: talking to his own penis is, at his age, frankly more than a little odd, and also Sherlock has freaky, bat-like hearing and can likely register every word John says, despite the closed door and the sound of running water.

He shuts off the taps, steps out, dries off and dresses, then in another burst of optimism--this one a bit more realistic overall--he brushes his teeth thoroughly, thinks about flossing, dismisses it as excessive before dressing in clean comfortable night clothes, old gym shorts (in a moment of mad optimism, he decides to go commando) and a white vest that is maybe, possibly, ever so slightly snug across the chest and then a touch looser in the belly in a way that is just a little more flattering than the rest of his other undershirts.

He glances in the mirror, just briefly, and decides to ignore the bags under his eyes and the lines etched across his forehead in favor of admiring the aforementioned flattering undershirt.

It’s the best he can do, and he supposes, going by the trajectory of the past several days, that it is enough to suffice. He’s never been one to dwell on his shortcomings, at any rate, and now doesn’t seem like the right time to start.

He fishes their jumbled first aid kit out from the cabinet under the sink--once a testament to methodical, military-enforced preparedness, frequent use has reduced it to little more than a shoebox full of random plasters, alcohol wipes, and tubes of ointment--and returns to the sitting room where Sherlock is sunk deep into his favorite armchair, long legs sprawled wide, fingers steepled under lips, his icy pale eyes gazing at nothing in particular in the middle distance. John can tell, from long experience, that Sherlock’s deep in contemplation, mulling over something or another in his labyrinthine, mysterious mind palace.

It comes as a surprise, then, how Sherlock shakes off his reverie when John enters the room, looking up at him with a expression John doesn’t quite know how to interpret.

He looks...pleased, a little. Maybe a bit apprehensive, yes, but there’s something hopeful there too, his green eyes warm and kind and _present_ , and something inside john just barely dares to hope.

“Hi,” he says, simply.

“Hello,” Sherlock replies, a trace of a smile tugging up the edge of that lovely full mouth, his eyes just flickering briefly up and down John’s body. “You look…”

“Clean?” John supplies.

“You look nice,” Sherlock murmurs, unguarded. “You smell nice,” he continues, softly, then catches up with himself and blushes, charmingly, bright spots of colour blooming high on his pale cheeks.

John just chuckles. “Anything has to be an improvement on old fryer grease and warehouse floor. Also, I stole some of your shampoo.”

Sherlock just nods, but looks away instead of laughing. He’s clearly feeling self-conscious, so John changes the subject.

“Let me take a look at that scratch?” he asks, holding up the first aid shoebox.

“Is here okay?” Sherlock asks. “Or do you want me to--”

“Here is fine,” John replies. He usually tends to Sherlock’s many minor injuries under the brighter lights of the kitchen, but he decides to not make Sherlock get up, instead, crossing the sitting room and placing the first aid box onto the side table next to Sherlock before sinking down to his knees in between his spread thighs.

The intimacy of the position is not lost on John.

“Turn your head to the right,” he murmurs. Sherlock complies, and John places two fingers gently against the sharp edge of his jaw, tipping his chin up for a better look at the thin red furrow etched into the soft white skin of his throat.

“What do you think, doctor?” Sherlock says quietly. John can feel the vibration of his rich, sultry baritone under his fingertips. They are so close together John can feel the heat of his body, can smell the sandalwood of his soap, underlaid with the darker, sweeter notes of of his own scent, rich and alluring.

John has to fight the impulse to roll his eyes at his own florid thoughts, and refocuses his attention to the matter at hand.

“I think you were right,” he murmurs. “It really is just a scratch.” He rummages briefly in the messy first aid kit, finds a tube of antibiotic salve and a still-sealed packet of sterile gauze. He tears the packet open, applies a thin stripe of ointment to the cloth and dabs at the wound, then tosses the cloth and tube of antiseptic carelessly aside. “Don’t even think it needs a plaster.” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer, not even to offer the I-told-you-so that as a rule he finds irresistible.

John looks up to find Sherlock studying his face, but his eyes are not meeting John’s; rather, he seems to be focused on John’s mouth with an intensity that John finds unnerving and arousing in equal measure. 

A second later, he realises his fingers are still gently pressed against Sherlock’s jaw.

The air feels heavy with tension, with expectation.

Moments pass.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Yes?” John replies, his voice noticeably, embarrassingly shaky.

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock says, and kisses him.

It begins as a straightforward press of his mouth against John’s, tender yet chaste, but it soon shifts, the absolute eternal chemistry between them sparking something powerful, and the kiss deepens into something far more carnal than any of the kisses they have yet shared, wet and messy with a sharp seeking edge of want, as Sherlock’s hot velvet tongue finds its way into John’s mouth, presses and strokes against his own. The feel of it sends ripples of shivery arousal down John’s spine as his cock grows hard and heavy, pushing against the slightly rough fabric of his shorts, making him give a little half-groan against Sherlock’s plush perfect mouth.

John slides his hand around to caress the base of Sherlock's skull, savouring the feel of thick silky curls sliding through his fingertips as they kiss and kiss, tasting each other, exploring each other’s mouths, their kisses less clumsy now, lips slotting easily together with a touch more ease than before, a comfort level borne of just slightly greater experience.

After a few lovely minutes of snogging Sherlock breaks away, panting a bit for air as he rests his forehead against John’s.

Their breathing is loud in the still, quiet room.

“John,” Sherlock says, and the way his voice cradles his name, caresses it, makes John’s heart pound in his chest. 

“Yes, love?”

“John. I’m…” Sherlock stops, swallows, exhales. “I’m alive.”

“You are,” John says, not quite following the train of thought but, as always, trusting Sherlock to take him wherever he will. “Amazingly, gorgeously alive.”

“I’m alive,” Sherlock repeats. “And he’s not. I’m alive, and he’s dead.”

John doesn’t answer in words, instead stroking his thumb across the geometric ridge of Sherlock’s cheekbone in silent encouragement.

“He took so much,” Sherlock murmurs, his eyes still closed, gathering courage. “I hate it but it’s the truth, he took so much from me, but I won’t-- but I won’t allow the vile spectre of a dead man to take this away from me. From us. Because I want this, I want you, I’m alive, and he’s dead, dead for real this time, not a fake suicide but a real hole in his head and--no, that’s not--sorry.” He blinks and swallows, turns his head away. “I--I find I conflate Moriarty and Rajakovic, sometimes. I know that seems ridiculous, but--”

“No, it’s not,” says John, gentle but firm. “It’s all part of the same long, tangled continuum of trauma. Different aspects of violation, manipulation, loss of control. It makes perfect sense.”

John half expects a self-deprecating comment, but Sherlock merely turns his head back and looks him in the eye, bolder, and nods. “Thank you for that,” he says. “Thank you, truly, but the fact remains--you must know mere words cannot describe how much I don’t want to talk about this, or _deal_ with this, in any manner whatsoever,” Sherlock pauses, shakes his head just slightly. “I don’t want to have to deal with any of this, ever again. God, John. I _hate_ it.”

“I know,” says John. “And I’ve tried to respect that. I won’t make you talk about anything, or do anything, that you don’t absolutely want to do.”

“You have,” Sherlock says, quieter, almost as if speaking to himself. “You truly have. You’ve consistently put my needs ahead of your own, without fail. It’s one of the many reasons why I love you. And I do. Love you. I hope you know that, and if you didn’t, well. You do now.”

Before John can quite process the enormity of that statement, Sherlock continues.

“And I want you. Emotionally and physically, I very much want you. I have for so long, for years, John, you’ve no idea--”

 _Oh, I believe I do_ , John thinks, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“--and I’ve come to realise, not just tonight, but--thinking it over, thinking as rationally, as objectively as I can, I see that I’ve made the mistake of thinking that the only way I can live with this thing that happened to me is to put it in a box and seal it up, and never look at it again, but that’s not a real answer, either, is it? I don’t…” He pauses, shakes his head. “I don’t want to live like that. I don’t have the right answer yet, not exactly, but I know that hiding and pretending it didn’t happen is keeping me from you. Keeping me from _us_ , and I see now if I do that, then I’m letting him win. And he didn’t win.” 

He pulls his head back to look into John’s eyes, celadon irises glittering, pupils wide and black in the low grey light, unshed tears clinging to long dark lashes. 

“He didn’t win,” he breathes, his voice raspy and urgent. “I see that now. _We won,_ John, we’re here and we’re alive and they’re dead and I won’t let them take this from us, not anymore, I _won’t_ \--”

John can’t find the words to do justice to what he feels right now, the pride and amazement and absolute hopeless love that he feels for this complicated, damaged, difficult, wondrous man, so he instead wraps his hands around Sherlock’s head, pulls him down and kisses him, kisses him fiercely, passionately, pouring every shred of his endless, unbreakable devotion into a single, simple physical gesture.

Sherlock kisses him back with equal fervor, with a hunger and greediness he’s never before shown, mouth open, inviting him in, full lips hot and searching against John’s, tongues wet and messy and near-frantic. Sherlock kisses him and kisses him, and John somehow feels like they hadn’t ever kissed before, not really, not like _this_ , absolutely open and unashamed in their need for each other.

It’s like falling into a bottomless pit, an endless abyss with no final impact to stop their descent.

Which makes it very much like flying, indeed.

Dizzy and almost overwhelmed with sensation, John breaks the kiss, sliding wet lips along the rough end-of-day stubble along Sherlock’s jawline as Sherlock’s hands pull him in even closer, roaming restlessly up and down his back in unspoken request.

“What do you want?” John breathes into his ear. “Anything. You can have anything. Just tell me.”

Sherlock’s arms tighten around John's torso. 

“I want you to take off your clothes,” Sherlock says, and his deep voice is roughened at the edges but assured, with a quiet certainty John hasn’t heard in weeks. “Will you do that for me, John?”

John doesn’t answer in words, but instead places his palms flat on Sherlock’s thighs and pushes himself to his feet, a bit ungainly, the creak and pop of his middle-aged knees unfolding is loud in the stillness of the room. As he rises to his feet, a relevant thought pushes its way to the front of his lust-addled brain.

“I’m just going to--” he gestures with a tilt of his head. “Mrs. Hudson’s downstairs.”

A puzzled look crosses Sherlock’s features for a brief moment, then clears as understanding dawns and he nods.

John tears his eyes away from that beautiful face--the effort of it almost a physical pain--and stands before turning away, crossing the small sitting room with a few strides. He turns the lock and slides the bolt home on the first door, then does the same for the kitchen door before returning to stand in front of Sherlock’s seated form, almost directly between his still-spread knees. He grabs the hem of his white shirt with both hands, pulls it up and over his head in one smooth motion, tosses it aside.

Sherlock’s eyes widen perceptibly, raking across John’s shoulders, down his pectorals, across the expanse of his slightly-softened belly. The heat and weight of his gaze is nearly palpable on John’s skin, a lush tropical ocean of sensation washing over him, making his limbs heavy and head swim. His nipples tighten and pebble and his already hard cock thickens, growing flushed and hard with the self-conscious arousal of being the subject of such an intense, laser-focused erotic scrutiny.

From outside the window an idling van driver honks the horn, loud and jolting, breaking the charged, intimate silence between them. 

The spell temporarily broken, a moment of clarity suddenly washes over John, cold and sobering, a sudden awareness of the frank ridiculousness of this entire scenario. He looks down at his own body, feeling suddenly uncertain; he’s a middle aged man, with grey hair and creaky knees and a bad shoulder and something considerably less than a six pack and a ridiculous erection, stripping for his best friend-turned-almost-lover, in the middle of their cluttered sitting room on a Thursday afternoon--

He feels foolish, embarrassed even, until he glances back up and into Sherlock’s eyes.

His pupils are wide and black, pale irises gone the colour of brushed steel as his white, rounded teeth dig into his lower lip, in unconscious and unspeakably erotic invitation. The look on his face at this moment can only be described as...adoration, pure and simple, and it compels John to bend and capture that beautiful mouth once more with his own, not even caring about the twinge the action produces in his lower back.

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” John says, as he brings himself back up to full height, hooking his thumbs into the elastic waistband of his shorts and easing them down past his hips, carefully releasing his cock from the confines of clothing. He pushes the fabric down his legs, stepping out and kicking them carelessly away.

John stands in front of Sherlock, naked as the day he was born, hands on hips, a bit self-conscious, perhaps, but unashamed and trusting, completely willing to let Sherlock have this control, to lead him wherever he wants or needs him to go.

“All right?” he asks, then, in a passing cheeky impulse, cocks his hip out, grins, and gives what he hopes is a silly, saucy wink.

It works. Sherlock laughs, low and genuine, and gives him a smile so sweet and real John feels it somewhere deep in his chest.

“More than all right,” he replies, and holds out a long-fingered hand. “Come here.”

John takes the offered hand, allows Sherlock to pull him into his lap, his knees slotting snugly on either side of his long lean thighs, his groin pressing into Sherlock’s, the two of them just barely fitting together into the slouchy armchair.

Sherlock’s brows come together slightly, the wrinkle that forms between them a faint line. He looks… not quite confused, but apprehensive, maybe. A little overwhelmed.

John grips the back of the chair with his right hand for leverage, bends forward at the waist and presses a gentle kiss into tousled curls.

“Touch me,” John murmurs. “ _Please,_ Sherlock _._ ”

Sherlock nods, brings one hand up, tentatively brushes the bare skin of John’s shoulder, sweeping fingertips slowly across the line of his collarbone, raising goosebumps on his skin, making him shiver with anticipation as he moves lower, carefully, with an agonising slowness that’s perfect and unbearable at the same time.

He touches John with an intensity of focus that’s almost overwhelming, sliding fingertips across John’s pectorals, tracing around the jagged edges of the scar on his shoulder. He is silent, hushed and reverent, bright eyes fathomless, and John knows he’s committing every touch, every sensation to memory.

Sherlock’s arousal is evident, the hot ridge of it nudging deliciously against the underside of John’s bollocks, and John can’t help but rock against it, his hips undulating gently as Sherlock’s huge hands grow bolder, roaming down his flanks, curving around his hips, slipping around to cup and knead at the bare flesh of his buttocks.

John lets Sherlock look and touch and explore him, touching and tasting and mapping every inch of his torso, his eyes reverent, his fingers carefully gentle. His heart full to bursting with tenderness, he watches the man he loves have his fill of the sensory impressions, knowing Sherlock is storing each sensation carefully away in his prodigious brain for safekeeping.

“John,” Sherlock finally murmurs, voice low and gravel-rough, strained almost to the point of breaking.

John reaches out, brushes aside a stray dark curl drooping over one eye.

“Yes, love?” 

“You’re so,” Sherlock starts, then pauses. “You’re so…” 

“Something good, I hope?” John asks, gently teasing.

“You’re _brilliant_ ,” Sherlock breathes, and pulls him down into a crushing kiss, wrapping his hands around the cheeks of John’s arse and tugging him down firmly against his groin. 

Their bodies press together from shoulders to knees, John’s cock pressing and rubbing against the thin cotton covering the warm, lean stretch of Sherlock’s belly, and John can’t help but give in to animal instinct and _push_ , his breath stuttering, his hips thrusting just slightly as he pushes against that wonderful, firm but yielding friction. He breaks the kiss, presses his mouth to Sherlock’s temple, inhales the intoxicating scent of his hair, spicy citrus with just the faintest trace of something muskier underneath.

“Is this all right?” John whispers into his ear.

Sherlock nods, punctuating his approval by sinking his fingers deeper into the soft flesh of John’s rear, pulling him even closer, encouraging the rolling cadence of John’s hips. The friction against his aching cock is intoxicating, addictive, the pleasure of it a deep aching heat low in his belly. 

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, his voice a low raspy purr. “The things we talked about the other night. About you watching me.”

“Yes,” Sherlock exhales, the word barely a whisper, with a touch of sibilance that John has only heard once or twice from him before, and only in moments of extreme duress. He finds it both sweetly innocent and inexplicably arousing.

“Would you still like that?” John asks.

“God, yes.”

John nods, presses his lips to Sherlock’s fever-hot forehead.

“You don’t happen to have anything to…”

Sherlock looks up at him and blinks, eyes unfocused and slightly confused.

“Slick,” John clarifies. “Lube.”

“Oh. No.”

“We’ll just do it the old fashioned way, then.” John leans back a bit, right hand still gripping the back of the chair for stability, and licks the palm of his left hand, wetting it thoroughly. Pushing stray tendrils of self consciousness aside, John wraps his spit-slicked hand around his very hot, very hard cock, gives it a first, tentative pull. 

His eyes close involuntarily as shivers of animal pleasure skitter up his spine, lighting up the base of his brain, _yesgoodpleasemore_. He exhales hard through his nose as he strokes himself again, slowly, from root to tip and back again, the wetness of his palm not quite enough to ease the friction, the tugging pull of it adding another layer of nuance, an edge of discomfort that deepens the sensation.

Beneath him Sherlock writhes, just a bit, gives a tiny low groan, his hands tightening on John’s hips as he thrusts up against him.

“Ohhhhhhh,” John sighs. “That’s so good, yes, that’s lovely--”

He opens his eyes to find Sherlock gazing down, mesmerised, at John’s fist pumping his own cock, root to tip and back down again. His reddened lips are parted slightly, his breath coming in short shallow gasps.

“You like this?” John asks between panting breaths, his low and gravelly, his voice roughened with pleasure.

Sherlock closes his mouth, swallows, nods.

“So do I.” John strokes himself again, slow but with a tighter grip now, adding a little twist to the top, tugging at the foreskin just a bit. “I like it too. I like-- _ahh_.” His back arches as a jolt of pleasure arcs up his spine. “I like you watching me.”

And it’s true. John hadn’t even fully realised the extent of his exhibitionistic streak until this moment, with Sherlock’s lust-blown pupils fixed raptly on John’s hand pulling hard at his cock, engorged and dusky pink-red. John flexes his hips, fucking up into his fist, rubs at the wet leaking slit of his glans with his thumb as Sherlock watches him, his pale green gaze increasing John’s pleasure tenfold, a hundredfold, a perfect feedback loop of arousal. Fuck, he’s never been so turned on in his life, and he’s going to come in about five more seconds if he doesn’t--

John squeezes hard at the base of the shaft and exhales, staving off his incipient orgasm; after a few moments he releases his tight grip and his cock bobs upward, impertinent, the head bumping against the slight swell of his lower belly. He slides his hand downwards, caressing the inside of his own thigh, fingers tracing the crease of his groin then sliding between his legs and cupping and kneading his bollocks. The sensation of heavy tugging pleasure makes him whimper once, involuntarily, low in his throat.

His right hand releases its grip on the back of the chair, sliding his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, dips his head down to kiss his reddened mouth. Sherlock kisses him back hungrily, greedily, his tongue hot and wet in John’s mouth, hands roaming across his back, his hips, his arse, fingers demanding and hungry, wanting in a way he’s never been before.

“Do you want--” John breathes the words in between frantic kisses, and Sherlock’s nodding before he can even finish the sentence. “Do you want to touch it?”

Sherlock gives a short, soft moan into John’s mouth in affirmation before breaking the kiss. He brings his right hand up to his mouth, swipes across the palm with his wet pink tongue in imitation of John’s earlier action. 

The press of his tongue to the flesh of his own hand is shockingly erotic, strangely and profoundly sexy in a way John would never be able to put adequately into words; his eyes follow the path of that hand, looking down the length of his own body as Sherlock’s long fingers wrap around the stretched-shiny skin of his prick.

That first, tentative slide of Sherlock’s wet fist around his cock pulls an involuntary noise from John’s throat, low and ragged, as the smoldering ember of lust in his belly bursts forth into hot bright flame.

“All right?” Sherlock asks, breathy, uncertain, concern creasing the adorable crinkle between his brows.

“God, yes,” John breathes. “It’s perfect, it’s so good, it’s, yes, don’t stop.”

Sherlock strokes him, slow and a bit uncertain at first, then with a bit more confidence as he finds a rhythm, long tight pulls, the friction of his hand rough and delicious against the delicate skin of his shaft.

John closes his eyes and gives himself over to the exquisite sensations sparking through his nerves, cupping and rolling his own balls, wanton and lewd, tugging them gently then pushing them up against his body as Sherlock pleasures him.

John barely registers the noises coming from his mouth, guttural grunts and small whimpering gasps--he was putting on a show for Sherlock before, a bit, but as the hot demanding need builds inside of him, winding him up tighter and tighter, he gives himself over to it, mindless, his rational thought gone completely offline. His entire being is given over completely to this moment, the tension in his body both delicious and unbearable, his thigh muscles trembling with the strain, the need for release an exquisite clamour in every muscle of his body.

The combined onslaught of pleasure is a tidal wave, overwhelming, and just a few moments later he feels the first shivers of approaching orgasm deep in his pelvis, a sudden hot rush of blood flooding his already-throbbing prick as his heavy bollocks pull up tight against his body.

“So good,” he rasps, “you’re so good, just a little harder, just--” He wraps his smaller hand around Sherlock’s, guiding him, showing him the short, jerking stroke he likes best, just this side of too rough, making John gasp as he thrusts and moans and sighs, reveling in the lewd display of it, spread out and naked, writhing shamelessly and pornographically in Sherlock’s lap. The very thought of it all sends hot sharp shivers of pleasure throughout his body zinging along his exposed, singing nerves, pushing him over the edge into--

“Oh God, I’m close,” John gasps, not even fully aware of his words. “Sherlock, God, _fuck_ , I’m so close--”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock breathes, awestruck, almost worshipful, and the single murmured word breaks John open completely and he comes, the muscles of his abdomen contracting hard, the world awash in blinding shuddering bliss as he spills with a low groan. Hot wetness spurts over their hands, spattering onto Sherlock’s belly, pearly and wet on the thin cotton of his worn tee shirt.

“Oh God,” he rasps, sagging against Sherlock’s warm chest, boneless in the wake of his shattering orgasm, pressing kisses to his collarbone in between ragged breaths as Sherlock strokes him through the receding aftershocks.

Sherlock slips his hand out from between their bodies, surreptitiously wiping it across the the leg of his pajama bottoms before wrapping both of his long arms around John, pulling him close as his breathing calms, his galloping heart rate slowing gradually to a canter.

Their breathing is the only sound in the quiet room. John burrows his head into Sherlock’s neck, the wetness between his belly and Sherlock’s chest cooling and growing somewhat sticky and unpleasant. 

“You made a terrible mess of me,” Sherlock murmurs, amused.

“I did,” John mumbles into the humid curve where Sherlock’s neck meets his shoulder. “Didn’t I?”

“In fact,” Sherlock continues, “I believe you need to get me out of these wet clothes and into a warm bed. Immediately.”

John can’t help a snort of amusement. “Sherlock Holmes, you did _not_ just utter that horrible, terrible line.”

“I did indeed,” Sherlock murmurs, though John can hear the cheeky grin in his voice, he needs to make sure. He lifts his head, pulls back to look searchingly into Sherlock’s face. 

“Are you certain?” John asks, quieter, serious.

Sherlock’s eyes meet John’s, clear and warm and unafraid.

“Absolutely.”

John climbs off Sherlock’s lap, lacking a bit in grace as the blood returns to his lower legs, pins and needles stabbing him in his calves as he unfolds himself to full height, holds out a hand to Sherlock. 

Sherlock takes the offered hand, lets John pull him to standing. He’s sweaty and blotchy and disheveled, curly hair almost standing on end, his tee shirt smeared with streaks of John’s drying semen. He looks positively debauched, and John knows he’s the sole and absolute cause of it. He did this to _Sherlock Holmes_ , brought him willingly to this vulnerable and human state, and somehow that awareness is stunningly, viscerally erotic. 

John’s spent, soft cock twitches, stirs, perks up more than a little despite its very recent exertions.

“Then let’s not waste a moment,” he murmurs, stretching up on tiptoes to kiss that ridiculous, perfect mouth, just once, before he pulls Sherlock by the hand towards their shared bedroom.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John closes his eyes and presses his forehead into Sherlock’s chest. He’s somehow surprised by the wetness flowing from his eyes, spilling over onto his cheeks, wetting Sherlock’s skin as John gives himself over to the embrace, allows Sherlock to give him comfort in this moment of unexpected confusion and anxiety. 
> 
> He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s slender waist; they hold each other tightly for a long time, entwined in each other, swaying almost imperceptibly as John weeps, silently, against Sherlock’s warm soft skin.
> 
> “You’ve shouldered so much of my burden,” Sherlock murmurs, lips brushing against the shell of ear, voice just barely above a whisper. “So much, and so bravely.”
> 
> “Not all the time,” John rasps. “Sometimes I shout and stomp away, or do or say things I regret -- ”
> 
> “I don’t care,” Sherlock cuts him off, quiet but emphatic, enunciating every syllable. “I don’t give a damn if you're not perfect. I don’t want perfect. I never have. I just want _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and finally, miraculously, this 5,000-word story that blossomed into over 44,000 words thankfully comes to a (happy) close.
> 
> Many thanks to [mycapeisplaid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mycapeisplaid/pseuds/mycapeisplaid/) for her lighting-fast beta skills and also being a great sounding board and friend.
> 
> And of course, this all exists thanks to Chalsedony (tumblr user Addictedstilltheaddict) whose prompt got this entire thing started. I hope you've been entertained by the ride, my darling!
> 
> Finally, so much gratitude to everyone who has read and commented and subscribed. Thanks for taking this trip with me, guys. Your love and support is really what keeps this train rolling.

Without another word, John takes Sherlock by the hand and leads him across the sitting room, down the hall to the bedroom, the draught of cool air in the hallway raising gooseflesh on his bare skin with each step.

In his preoccupied mental state, John had neglected to shut off the lights when he left the bathroom earlier. Now, the amber-tinted light filters softly through the frosted glass of the door, giving the bedroom a dreamy, shadowed aura as he turns to face Sherlock, his fingers still tangled with Sherlock’s much longer ones.

“Now, you were saying something about that wet shirt?” John says, a note of gentle teasing in his voice.

Sherlock hesitates for just the briefest moment before releasing John’s fingers in order to grasp at the hem of his shirt with both hands, pulling it up and over his head in one graceful motion before tossing it carelessly to the floor. He looks down at John, draws in a slightly shaky breath.

“Better?” he asks, and John doesn’t miss the hint of bravado, a false front that doesn’t do a thing to disguise his visible nervousness.

“Not just better,” John breathes, quiet, hushed with awe. “Sherlock. You’re _perfect._ ”

He means it, with every fibre of his being. Sherlock’s body is surpassingly, stunningly lovely by every objective standard, and although before the the day they met John had never once thought to apply that adjective to a man -- attractive, yes, or handsome, or even hot, but never _lovely_ \-- it’s the absolute truth. 

Sherlock is _beautiful_ , uniquely so, gangly limbs and manic energy balanced by an innate, improbable grace -- a lithe, sinuous appeal that is surprisingly sensuous yet always primally, fundamentally male, never feminine in any aspect. Sherlock is absolutely, undeniably, gorgeously masculine in every manner and form, from his strong dark brows to the set of his shoulders, the flat planes of this torso, the narrow set of his slim hips.

And even though John knows that love and desire and associated hormones are the driving forces behind these overwrought mental rhapsodies, it doesn’t change the fact that for him, these feelings are absolute fundamental truth.

Sherlock’s bare flesh is not entirely new to him, of course. John has seen him without clothing before, of course he has, doctored him on too many occasions to count, thrown him bodily into the shower on a remarkably regular basis, after misadventures involving blood and mud and much worse, but this--this is _different_ , so very different, the air between them charged with arousal and erotic intent as Sherlock holds himself still, alert and watchful, silver-green eyes a bit uncertain but not fearful as he allows John to look at him for as long as he wants.

And John wants, he does. He wants more in this moment than he could ever put into words, wants _endlessly,_ as his eyes roam across miles of ivory pale flesh, taking in every dip and curve, every detail of Sherlock’s physical being.

His torso is long and lean, shoulders broad, the flat plains chest layered with just enough muscle to keep him on the right side of too thin. A stripe of pale white scar peeks over the curve of his right deltoid; John reaches up, tracing the line made by a cruel whip with a feather light touch of a thumb. The sight triggers a brief silver stab of pain in John’s heart, blade-sharp sorrow at the thought of the similar sibling scars just out of sight, crisscrossing Sherlock’s muscular back, a silent testament to the horror he’s endured, both those John knows of -- and those as yet untold.

 _Don’t_ , he tells himself firmly. _Now isn’t the time for dwelling on what cannot be changed._ John bites his lip, shuts the unpleasant thoughts away, and tries to focus on the here and now as he continues his visual survey down Sherlock’s body. The expanse of skin below his sharp collarbones is marked with a surprising number of brown freckles; most are flat, but one or two of them have raised edges, needing monitoring in future --

(-- _Not now, doctor_ , he tells himself curtly, and shuts away the stray thought.)

His gaze slipping lower, John takes in the firm, barely rounded curves of Sherlock’s pectorals, the spare dusting of dark hair between them, the layer of defined muscle only slightly softening the outline of his ribcage. His nipples are slightly oval, dark pink and hardened.

And between them, just slightly to the right of his sternum, lies the neat, circular scar where a psychopath’s bullet had come within hairsbreadth of ending Sherlock’s life.

John stares at it for a long time. He cannot tear his eyes away, it seems, his mouth going dry and his throat tightening at that perfectly round divot of tough white tissue. It’s so much more than a scar, he sees that now -- it’s testament to the hell they’ve walked through to get here, a perfect symbol of the desperate, tragic unfairness of what Sherlock’s beautifully scarred body has had to endure in order to bring them to this place.

In a single moment everything tilts, goes off balance; the sheer weight of it all, the responsibility of caring for Sherlock properly, of righting the terrible wrongs done to him -- it suddenly feels like more than John can possibly bear. It’s all too much, it’s _overwhelming,_ and everything he’s pushed away comes roaring back. Every fear and doubt and bitter regret suddenly feels far too dangerous, too close to the surface. A wave of emotional vertigo crashes over him, a tsunami of aching grief and sorrow that threatens to undo him completely; all this and more must be written all over his face right now, judging by the way Sherlock’s brows knit together as he looks down at him with undisguised concern.

“John?” he asks, voice soft and full of concerned, his tone gentler than anything John once thought possible. “You look like--what is it? What’s wrong?”

“Sherlock,” John breathes, forcing the two syllables out from a tight, constricted throat, past suddenly parched lips. “I’m, just, I’m -- ” his voice cracks on the last syllable; his vision goes blurry and grey at the edges and he must actually sway on his feet, a little, because the next thing he knows long arms are wrapping around him, pulling him in close, until their bare chests are pressed together. Sherlock’s warmth surrounds him, his heartbeat under his ear, John’s now-soft penis pressing against Sherlock’s thigh, and all of this somehow this strikes John as more purely, nakedly intimate than anything else that has happened so far.

This passing thought, out of everything, is what threatens to crack him in two, undo him completely, and he lets out a single harsh, choked off sob.

“No, I’m okay,” John rasps, but it’s a lie, a stupidly obvious lie, his voice thick and choked with unshed tears. “I am. I am. I’m -- ” His exhale is choked, ragged. “No,” he finally admits, as much to himself as to Sherlock. “I’m not okay, am I? But it’s not -- I’m not panicking. This looks like a panic attack, doesn’t it? It’s not. _I’m not panicking_.”

“I know,” Sherlock murmurs, low and soothing, stroking his back, roughened fingertips tracing up and down the length of John’s spine. “I know. It’s all right.”

To think he once believed this man _didn’t feel things like that_ ; John feels a flash of hot shame for how he had underestimated Sherlock so terribly for so long, and that surge of feeling is followed by another of those small, unexpected but shattering epiphanies, a moment of sharp clarity that changes the very landscape of his heart.

 _You want him to let you in? Then maybe for once you need to let_ him _in._

“I so much want to be everything you need,” John says into the warm skin of Sherlock’s bare shoulder, the truth spilling out of him before he can give in to the urge to take it back, shut it down, shove it away. “I want to fix it all, make everything better, make everything right. I want this to be perfect for you, more than anything, and I’m afraid of screwing it up, of frightening you or upsetting you, and I don’t know what the hell I’m even doing, and -- and -- ” he draws a deep, shuddering breath, tries to get his careening emotions under control. “Fuck, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to -- ”

Sherlock shushes into his hair, rubs gentle circles into his back.

John closes his eyes and presses his forehead into Sherlock’s chest. He’s somehow surprised by the wetness flowing from his eyes, spilling over onto his cheeks, wetting Sherlock’s skin as John gives himself over to the embrace, allows Sherlock to give him comfort in this moment of unexpected confusion and anxiety. 

He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s slender waist; they hold each other tightly for a long time, entwined in each other, swaying almost imperceptibly as John weeps, silently, against Sherlock’s warm soft skin.

“You’ve shouldered so much of my burden,” Sherlock murmurs, lips brushing against the shell of ear, voice just barely above a whisper. “So much, and so bravely.”

“Not all the time,” John rasps. “Sometimes I shout and stomp away, or do or say things I regret -- ”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock cuts him off, quiet but emphatic, enunciating every syllable. “I don’t give a damn if you're not perfect. I don’t want perfect. I never have. I just want _you_.”

Something in John’s chest loosens at Sherlock’s words; the feeling is like letting out a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. 

“Me, too,” he sighs against warm skin as he tightens his arms around Sherlock’s waist in response. He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s collarbone, then nestles his head against the curve of his long neck, marveling how perfectly they fit together like this, like two matched pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

Sherlock rubs John’s shoulders, kisses his hair.

“Well, then,” he murmurs, his warm baritone of his voice vibrating against John’s rib cage. “Glad that’s sorted.”

John is quiet for a moment, as his roiling emotions settle a bit. Finally he takes a deep breath, shakes his head, laughs a bit self consciously as he swipes at wet eyes with the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says, somewhat abashed. “I don’t know what came over me; I really don’t.”

“It’s okay,” Sherlock replies, pressing another kiss onto the top of his head. “It truly is. Fear simply means you’re wise enough to know the scope of what you’re getting yourself into. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

John can’t help but laugh. 

“Did you just call me...wise?” he asks, his tone teasing.

Sherlock tilts his head, gives John one of his genuine smiles, the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I believe I just did.”

“Unbelievable,” John says, stretching upwards to press his mouth to those smiling lips. Sherlock’s hand comes up and cups the back of his head as he kisses him back, thoroughly, and though the kiss begins in tenderness and caring, it soon grows passionate, hungry and seeking, as all their kisses seem to inevitably do.

“So,” Sherlock says breathlessly after they break apart for air. “Do you still...um...” he trails off, self-conscious, then quirks an eyebrow just a tick and grins a bit at his own awkwardness. “You know. Want to?”

John laughs, a little shakily. “God, yes.” He looks up at Sherlock, assessing. “Do you?”

“I do,” Sherlock says. “God, yes. Absolutely.”

“Maybe we should be a bit more...I mean...horizontal?” John offers.

Sherlock nods, huffs a tiny chuckle as he pulls John into him, walks them backwards, shuffling them clumsily to the unmade bed until the backs of his knees touch the mattress then tumbling both of them into it, landing gracelessly on his back as John ends up sprawled inelegantly on top of him. With a grunt John rights himself, throwing a leg over Sherlock’s hips, leveraging himself up onto his knees and elbows. 

He brushes a stray dark curl away from Sherlock’s forehead as the mood shifts into something more fraught, more serious. Sherlock’s white rounded teeth worry at his pink lower lip, as he runs fingers up and then down against the side of John’s forearm, tracing the outline of his flexed brachioradialis muscle.

“Is this all right?” John asks.

Sherlock’s eyes gaze up at him, dark grey and somber in the low light. He nods in wordless assent.

John turns his palm upwards, catches Sherlock’s hand in his, tangles their fingers together, splaying them out against the cream coloured sheets.

“Can I kiss you again?” he murmurs.

“You can _always_ kiss me,” Sherlock murmurs in reply.

So John does.

Sherlock tilts his head upwards to meet the kiss, his plush lips parting in irresistible invitation, his tongue slipping out to meet and tangle with John’s as the kiss grows more heated. His free hand comes up to cradle the side of John’s head as the urgency and need between them begins to rise yet again.

After a few delightful minutes of snogging John breaks away slightly, then takes Sherlock’s wet, pouty lower lip in between between his teeth and tugs gently, then soothing the nip with a tiny swipe of his tongue before sliding his mouth to the underside of his jaw, stubble prickly-warm against his mouth as he tastes him there.

“Can I kiss you here?” John murmurs against hot, sandpaper rough skin. 

Sherlock nods and tips his head up and to the side, allowing John better access as he moves lower, presses a line of kisses down the right side of that impossibly long throat. He savours the feel of his pulse jumping underneath his lips, bends his head to lick and nibble eagerly at damp curve at the juncture of neck and shoulder as Sherlock‘s fingers spasmodically clutch at the back of his head, his lean frame shivering underneath the weight of John’s body as his hips stutter and push upward, instinctively seeking contact and pressure and friction.

John bends his head, dips a wet tongue into the hollow of a prominent collarbone, gives a small sigh of gratification at the sharp, primal taste of the skin there, salt and soap, ocean and musk. 

“And here?” he murmurs.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock exhales, the word a bare susurration of breath escaping his lips. 

He’s completely hard again, his erection pushing insistently against John’s lower belly with each flex of his hips. John’s own recently-satisfied cock is still mostly soft, but this slow, reverent worship of Sherlock’s body is, in and of itself, deeply erotic to John, making his prick twitch and thicken and fill despite his usual decidedly middle-aged refractory period. His own recent (and rather spectacular) orgasm keeps his own arousal at a low simmer, prevents it from boiling over; instead, his desire is a languorous heat low in his belly, sensual but not demanding, giving John the the luxury of focusing purely on Sherlock, attending to his every shiver and gasp and sigh, reading the signs of his body, giving to him without needing to take, making sure he feels entirely safe, cared for, loved.

Everything about this moment, about Sherlock shivering and sighing underneath him, vulnerable and damaged, brave and trusting and so utterly, completely _his --_ it triggers every single one of John’s primal instincts, every nerve ending alight with a fierce possessive devotion he never knew existed in this world, a shimmering, transcendent feeling he now knows he can never again live without.

“You’re so beautiful,” John breathes into his skin, all emotional filters demolished as he trails feather light kisses down the swell of his right pectoral. “Look at you, my God, so beautiful. You feel so good -- you taste so good -- ”

Sherlock’s strong fingers weave through his hair, wrap around the sides of his skull, urge him on wordlessly, pulling him in close and keeping John’s mouth in contact as his body arches and writhes underneath him. Understanding the unspoken message that his lips and mouth are safe and welcomed, John laves the perimeter of a dark pink areolae, is rewarded by the feel of responsive flesh tightening under the flat sweep of his tongue as Sherlock gasps in pleasure. John does it again, and again, tracing swirling patterns into the pebbled flesh with the pointed tip of his tongue, then swirling around the hard nub of nipple once, twice, a third time, before pulling it into his mouth and suckling greedily. He is rewarded by Sherlock’s ragged, gulping breaths as he grinds his pelvis hard against John’s in lascivious response.

The sounds of Sherlock’s pleasure urging him on, John settles in for a long leisurely stay, alternating attentive suction with gentle flicks of his tongue, then pulling back to blow a stream cooling air over the wet rosy tip before pulling it back into his mouth to worry it gently with his teeth before then repeating the process over again on the other side.

As Sherlock responds so beautifully to his ministrations, squirming and sighing underneath him, John finds himself distantly surprised how very, very enjoyable he finds this careful, reverent oral worship of Sherlock’s nipples. John has always had a very pronounced oral fixation and had been fairly partial to female breasts, liked the feel and weight of them, and had once or twice wondered in passing if he’d miss them if he ever decided to be with a man (Sherlock, let’s be honest, it was always Sherlock) permanently -- but he’d never been as aroused by any female breast as much as he is right now by the wonders of Sherlock’s body, the contrast of soft skin over hard muscle, the way creamy pale and smooth meets tightly pebbled and dusky pink, the exquisite sensitivity of them, how the barest caress of his tongue makes Sherlock shiver and gasp in response.

He could spend hours here, _days_ here, in adoration of this beautiful man -- but Sherlock seems restless, almost in distress, his shivers turning to full body shudders, his breathing gone harsh and ragged.

“John,” he breathes out in between gasping breaths. “John, John, John.”

John presses a final kiss just to the right of Sherlock’s sternum, just above that hateful round scar, and raises his head. “Yes, love. Tell me.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer in words, instead thrusting his hips upward, grinding his still-clothed erection hard against John’s chest and shoving hard on his shoulder in an unmistakable (and frankly rather crude, but John will forgive, considering) nonverbal request.

John can’t help but chuckle just a little. “You want me to keep going, then?”

Sherlock draws a long, ragged breath, exhales.

“If you don’t,” he says, “I swear I will _die_.”

John gives a soft chuckle.

“Can’t have that,” he murmurs, amused, and begins to kiss his way down Sherlock’s belly, tracing the vertical dip of the linea alba bisecting his abdominals with his tongue, licking a circle around the tight involuted knot of his navel, gently worrying on the tiny bit of flesh right below with his teeth.

Sherlock’s prick is straining against layers of fabric, pressing into John’s sternum as John rubs the tip of his nose against the faint shadow of dark hair just below his navel, inhaling the slightly muskier scent there, then following with his tongue, tasting him, salty and slightly earthy on his tongue, following the trail with his tongue to where it disappears under the waist of his pyjama bottoms.

Sherlock’s hips thrust off the bed in stuttering, uncontrolled movements as he gasps and cries out; John raises his head, decides to take a chance before Sherlock’s flailing inadvertently whacks him in the side of his face with a lethally sharp iliac crest. He places his hands gently on the sharp ridge of hips, steadying him, fingers bracketing his lower flanks and thumbs pressing just slightly into the hollows on the inner aspect of his pelvic bone.

He’s a bit surprised when Sherlock immediately settles, seemingly grounded by the soothing yet firm pressure of John’s hands.

“Okay?” John asks.

Sherlock arches into his touch. “Mmm,” he breathes, nodding his assent. 

John presses soft kisses to his trembling lower abdomen, then moves lower, nosing at the crease between his right leg and groin, pressing his face into the fabric of his pyjama bottoms, inhaling deeply, the scent of his clean musky maleness stronger here, mixing with the floral notes of detergent and soap, and the intimacy of it all, of smelling him like this, sends shivers of arousal down john’s spine, making his belly tense and tighten and and his cock spring back to full attention.

“Fuck, God, Sherlock,” he murmurs, the words half-muffled, “you make me crazy, you feel so good, you smell so fucking good.” 

Sherlock doesn’t speak, but his breathing is shallow and rapid, and the hand on John’s shoulder moves to his hair, unsubtly pushes his head towards towards the prominent bulge in his pyjamas. John obeys the unspoken request gladly, pressing his face into his groin, rubbing first his cheek against the ridge of his stiff cock, and then his mouth, feeling the heat of it even through two layers of clothing. He carefully slides his mouth upwards, finding the head of Sherlock’s stiff cock, trapped in his pants and pressed upward, nearly flat against his pubic bone. He mouths and licks at it through the cloth, greedy and wanting, tasting a hint of bitter salt at the small damp patch of fabric as Sherlock writhes in silent pleasure underneath him.

And he _has_ gone completely quiet, John belatedly realises; despite the hardness of his cock and the flexing of his hips, Sherlock hasn’t made a single sound for at least several minutes now, and the sudden awareness and understanding of what underpins the silence makes John’s heart ache more than a little.

John pauses in his careful ministrations, raises his head to look up at Sherlock’s face, his thumbs still rubbing gentle circles into the concave hollows of his hipbones. 

Left arm thrown haphazardly over his face, Sherlock whines softly in his throat, frustration unmistakable as he shoves inelegantly at John’s shoulder with his right hand.

“I want to keep going,” John says. “I really, truly do. I want to undress you and kiss you all over, love, but I need to hear you say yes. Please? It’s important to me.”

Sherlock makes a low, distinctly annoyed sound. “Oh for the love of -- ” he rasps, irritation and need co-mingling in his tone, a mixture that is so uniquely _him_ it makes John turn his head and smile into his elbow in fond amusement. 

“ _John_. Stop that, this isn’t funny.”

“Sorry, love. Of course it’s not funny. I’m sorry.” John kisses his lower belly in contrition. “Just tell me yes, and I’ll keep going.”

“Oh good _God_ ,” Sherlock groans. “Will you just -- _yes._ Okay? Please. _Yes.”_

John nods, presses his lips to the warm soft flesh of Sherlock’s lower belly one more time.

“In that case, then,” he says, half to himself, pivoting on one knee, climbing off Sherlock’s supine frame, kneeling at his side and hooking his fingers into the waist of both his pyjamas and briefs. 

“Raise up a bit,” he murmurs.

Sherlock complies, lifting his arse off the bed as John eases the fabric carefully down his hips, manoeuvering carefully as he eases the elastic over his very prominent erection, watching in undisguised fascination as Sherlock’s very hard penis (smaller than John’s, slightly, but perfectly formed, the shaft veiny and dusky pink and the foreskin already retracted to reveal the purpling, wet head) springs free from the confinement of snug briefs. 

John wiggles the pants and bottoms down and off Sherlock’s long slim legs, tossing them over the edge of the bed before carefully settling himself back in between his pale, wide spread thighs. He runs his hands lightly up down the lean, muscled length of his legs, from hips to knees, gazing with reverence at the lovely body beneath his fingertips.

Sherlock’s eager prick is so hard it’s nearly horizontal with his belly, rising from a charmingly, unexpectedly wild thatch of dark reddish hair. His scrotum is lightly furred as well, the thin skin stretched shiny tight over large, full, heavy testicles. 

The wet head of Sherlock’s cock bobs gently against his concave lower abdomen with every trembling breath he takes, the movement of it transfixingly, hypnotically erotic to John’s eyes. 

He is so beautiful, so unspeakably lovely in this moment, in his trust and vulnerability, his endless faith in John such a powerful repudiation of trauma and fear, and it makes John’s head swim and his breath hitch in his chest.

“Oh love,” John breathes, and bends his head to press his mouth to the warm crease where groin and thigh meet, nose pressing into coarse fragrant hair, breathing in the earthy, spicy musk of his body. “Oh lovely,” he repeats, not even fully aware he’s saying it, “Oh lovely, oh love.”

Sherlock’s only answer is ragged, almost plaintive whine and a single, convulsive twitch of his hips. 

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, then licks at the crease with his tongue, the concentrated taste of him intoxicating, exploding in his brain. “Sweetheart. Can I -- ”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes out, a universe of emotion and need contained in one ragged syllable.

John doesn’t hesitate, shifting himself slightly to engulf that lovely prick with his mouth, savouring the delicious friction of hot satiny skin across his lips as he takes him in fully. He misjudges slightly from years out of practice, though, and the head of Sherlock’s cock presses just a little too hard against the back of his mouth, making John cough and sputter from lack of practice. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Sherlock stutters. “Are you all right?”

John coughs again, then, clears his throat.

“I’m fine,” he assures Sherlock.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me. I promise. I’ve done this lots of times before.”

That brings Sherlock out of his daze enough that he picks up his head, looks down at John with a slightly lifted eyebrow.

“Lots of times?” he asks, voice slightly rough and breathless, but he still manages to somehow sound almost...condescendingly amused.

John’s eyebrows rise in incredulity as he gives Sherlock his best _are you kidding me right now_ look. 

“Well.” John tilts his head. “Yes. Problem?”

“Of course not. But... _lots_? Really?”

“Yes, _lots_ ,” John replies, carefully patient. “But do you think we could we possibly have this conversation at another time?”

“I just had no idea,” Sherlock says, sounding genuinely impressed.

“I’m just full of surprises,” John mock-growls, though he’s truly more amused than annoyed; he decides to end the conversation and show Sherlock exactly _how much_ he can surprise him by swallowing his cock down to the root, mouth and lips working in tandem to make Sherlock gasp and arch upwards, hips stuttering, unable to stop himself from thrusting upwards at the intensity of the sensation.

Humming in satisfaction, John takes hold of Sherlock’s hips -- not trapping him nor restraining but anchoring him, keeping his hips still as John bobs his head, experimental, moving up to mouth and lick at the crown then sliding back down until his nose is pressed into rough fragrant hair, remembering the finer points of past blow jobs both received and given as he moves. He recalls now how much he likes the incomparable feel and taste of a cock hard and heavy in his mouth as his tongue caresses the vein on the underside of Sherlock’s shaft with each slide of his mouth then circles the head, tasting bitter salt as he flicks carefully at the slit.

Within moments John has reacquainted himself with the basics of fellatio, settling into a slow, steady rhythm, gentle, nothing fancy or complicated, a straightforward ebbing and flowing tide meant to carry him to his climax without teasing or frustrating him.

Underneath him Sherlock is still silent, save for his labored, panting breaths, his pelvis canting upward to meet each movement of John’s head. John attends to his task intently, savoring the taste of him, the heat and weight and slide of his cock a satisfying fullness in his mouth. He focuses every bit of his attention to this task, a pure single minded devotion to this simple act of giving Sherlock pleasure, giving him the bodily satisfaction he so very much deserves, giving him back a simple animal pleasure that has been tainted and sullied by coercion, by violation.

For long minutes the sounds of suction against wet flesh and the ragged breaths of straining exertion fill the otherwise silent room.

John works him patiently, slow long purposeful sucks, sliding down to the base then back up to the tip, tonguing his frenulum and licking slow whorls around the tip. Sherlock’s entire body shudders with each flex of his hips, his damp skin radiating heat, his abdominal muscles tremble and shake with exertion as he strains towards his elusive goal, as John’s jaw aches with effort.

“ _John,”_ Sherlock rasps, voice roughened and near pleading, as shockingly strong fingers weave into John’s hair, tugging him up, pulling him away from his task. 

John acquiesces, releasing Sherlock’s cock with a loud wet slurp and scooting himself carefully up his body, keeping his weight on his knees and elbows as he trails gentle kisses up Sherlock’s neck, along the edge of his jaw, against his hot, sweat-damp temple.

“Talk to me, love,” he murmurs, tender and a little concerned. “Tell me what you need.”

Sherlock’s head is thrown back as he gasps for breath, damp curls plastered against his forehead, the mottled blotchy flush of arousal visible on his heaving chest.

“John. I can’t.” His deep gravelly voice is wound with tension, bordering on panicky. “I _can’t._ ”

“It’s okay. Shh, it’s okay, you don’t have to. It’s fine.”

“No, I -- I want to. God, oh _God_ \-- ” on the edge of incoherence, Sherlock rolls his head from side to side, his breathing shallow and uneven. “I need to. John. Please. I _need_ to. Please, it hurts, it aches, I need to -- ”

John tenderly brushes sweaty matted curls out of Sherlock’s eyes. “Shh. it’s all right. Lovely man. It’s all right.” He kisses Sherlock’s fever-hot forehead. “Can you show me?” he murmurs. “Can you show me where it hurts?”

Sherlock takes hold of John’s hand, brings it down between their bodies and shoves it inelegantly between his legs in desperate wordless need.

“Here?” John murmurs, gently cupping his heavy, swollen bollocks, thumb gently caressing the delicate, stretched-tight skin of his scrotum. He massages them with care, pushing them gently up against his body before releasing them to rest heavy in his palm.

Sherlock lets out a plaintive, raggedy whine, his eyes screwed tightly shut as his hips rise off the bed, seemingly of their own accord.

“Of course it aches,” John tells him, his voice low and wrecked with renewed arousal as he kisses his sternum, his belly. “You’re just full to bursting, aren’t you? Poor sweet thing.”

“John,” Sherlock moans, wrecked and pleading. “John, _please._ ”

John rests his cheek against quivering skin of Sherlock’s belly, cupping and rolling his hot, heavy bollocks, listening to his tight, ragged breathing, considering how to best remedy his need.

“I have an idea,” he says after a bit of thought, climbing off Sherlock. He grabs a pillow and folds it in two, shoves it under his head as he lies back in the hopelessly tangled sheets.

“Get on top of me,” he instructs, direct and to the point, tugging on Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock obeys, somewhat clumsily, his heavy cock and full bollocks bumping against John’s chest as John guides him into position, Sherlock’s bony knees astride his torso, resting just under his armpits.

As he looks up at into his eyes, John can’t help but adore the way Sherlock looks right now: naked and sweaty, wild-haired and double-chinned, completely vulnerable, all self-awareness and reflexive defense mechanisms completely fallen to the wayside. 

John knows he has never loved him more than in this moment.

He levers himself up, presses kisses to the hard pale stretch of Sherlock’s upper thigh.

“You’re so good,” John tells him, breathes the words into his salt-damp flesh as he brings his hands up to slide up the outside of his thighs, caressing his bare hips. “You’re so good, so safe. I won’t ever hurt you, I promise, not ever. Do you believe that?”

Sherlock nods. “I do,” he breathes, utterly trusting.

“Grab hold of the headboard,” John tells him, and slides down the bed just a little more.

“I want you to fuck my mouth,” John says, soft but direct, the filthy words tumbling out of him unchecked his usual filter of reticent self-consciousness derailed by his bone-deep instinct to give Sherlock what he so desperately needs. “I want you to fuck my mouth however you want to, and just give yourself up to it, let yourself feel good.” He mouths and the tender skin of his inner thigh, licks delicately at the softly-furred crease of his groin. “Can you do that, love?”

“All right,” Sherlock whispers, the barest breath of air forming the words.

John cups one hand around the sharp curve of his hip, fingertips pressing into the delicious springy flesh of his arse. He wraps the fingers of his other around the base of Sherlock’s straining cock, guiding it to his lips, pausing for a moment to lick the single shiny, briny-bitter drop of precome from the slit before taking him into his mouth, making his slim frame shudder with silent pleasure. 

John gently guides Sherlock on with the hand on his hip, encouraging him to move, to thrust as John keeps his mouth slack and wet, his jaw relaxed. After a few moments of stuttered, abortive movement, Sherlock begins to find his rhythm, hand gripping the wooden headboard for dear life as he thrusts, cock sliding in and out of John’s wet slack mouth -- but he’s still overly careful, overly constrained, unwilling to let go enough to reach climax.

John reaches out to take Sherlock’s free hand, guides it to his head in unmistakable intent as he pulls Sherlock’s body closer in encouragement, relaxing his throat to take him in fully as his cock pushes deep into his mouth, pressing against his soft palate, testing his gag reflex.

Sherlock makes a tiny, barely audible groan as he takes hold of John’s hair and begins to fuck his mouth in earnest, his thrusts growing steadier, more insistent as sensation and instinct begin to override his conscious thought. John can’t help but moan a little at the sensation of it, at the way his lips stretch around Sherlock’s girth as saliva gathers and pools and drips from the edges of his mouth, the hot smooth flesh of his cock filling his mouth so completely. 

Despite his watering eyes, John is compelled to watch the mesmerising sight of Sherlock above him, his lean frame curled forward in an apostrophe of tension, eyes tightly shut and his plush pink mouth rounded into a silent O of pleasure as his cock slides in and out of John’s eager mouth. He feels the visceral pull of arousal at the sheer pornography of the sight, the heat and weight of it almost a physical presence low in his pelvis, making his own cock throb and clamour for friction in spite of recent exertions. John releases his hold on Sherlock’s right hip, slipping his hand in between his own legs, wrapping fingers around the base of his now-aching cock and squeezing, stroking himself in counterpoint to the motion of Sherlock’s pistoning hips as he seeks his elusive, long-denied release.

Some minutes later Sherlock gives a short, bitten off, panicked gasp, his thighs trembling, his hips stuttering out of their hard-won rhythm.

“John,” he cries out softly, barely more than whimper, and he sounds distressed, almost in pain. “John. I--”

John abandons his ministrations on himself to focus solely on Sherlock, bringing both hands up to grasp his rear in encouragement, cupping and squeezing the lush curves of his arse, pulling him close, moaning his encouragement as the flat of his tongue caresses the base of his cock with each thrust.

Sherlock inhales sharply through his mouth as his pelvis curls forward, his abdominal muscles flexing, his entire body tensing as he tips over into orgasm, giving a single ragged exhale as he floods John’s mouth with hot viscous fluid, thick and slightly astringent. He comes and comes, harder and longer than John has ever before witnessed, a tidal wave of denied release spurting over and over again against the back of John’s throat. John swallows and swallows, still holding tightly to Sherlock’s hips, guiding him through his shattering orgasm as his entire body shudders uncontrollably, the pleasure burning through him, a sight exquisitely terrifying and beautiful to behold.

As the overwhelming wave finally begins to ebb, Sherlock releases his long-held breath with an explosive gasp, panting harshly as his long bony frame sags heavily against John’s body. John releases him from his mouth, swipes the back of his hand across his wet lips before sliding his hands from his arse up to his his back. He guides him onto his side gently, easing him down onto the bed before he falls down, rubbing gentle circles into his skin and murmuring nonsense words of comfort into his ear as he recovers.

Tiny shivering aftershocks are still rippling through Sherlock’s body as he wraps a long arm around John’s waist, curling himself tightly into his side.

“Oh God,” he rasps. “Oh my God. John. _Oh my God_.”

John turns onto his side, presses a kiss to Sherlock’s hot cheek, tastes the unexpected salt and wet there.

“Hey. Shhh. It’s okay. Oh baby. _Shhh_.” John croons the nonsense syllables as he brushes his lips up and across his closed eyes, kissing away silent tears without comment, until the tremors under Sherlock’s skin begin to ease and his breathing grows even and calm.

After several minutes of stroking and cuddling, Sherlock stirs in his arms, resettles, gives a croaky, rough sigh, then shivers a little. John can feel his damp skin growing clammy in the cool air; without breaking contact, John sits up a little to grab the mashed-down coverlet, pulling it over their entwined bodies.

“All right?” John asks quietly, smoothing the blanket over Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock gives a quiet hum of agreement, then chuckles, low in his throat.

“No, I’m not all right,” he murmurs. His voice is gravelly and thick, but to his relief John can hear warmth there, a honeyed note of sated amusement. “Good Lord, I’ll never be all right again, I don’t think. At least, I hope not.”

“That’s a good thing?”

“That’s a _wonderful_ thing,” Sherlock replies, earnestly. He tilts his head up, seeking, and John obliges, eagerly, meeting his swollen, chapped, tired lips with his own. It’s not even really kissing, precisely, but rather a lazy sort of nipping and nibbling at each others mouths, comforting and reconnecting with each other, an instinctive expression of closeness and bonding that John can’t ever recall indulging in before this very moment.

After several long perfect minutes of mindless sated nuzzling Sherlock stills against John’s mouth, as if a question has suddenly occurred to him.

“What about you?” Sherlock murmurs, and John realises his still semi-erect cock is pushing against Sherlock’s thigh.

“I’m perfect for right now,” he replies with total honesty.

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” John pecks at Sherlock’s still-wet bottom lip. “I just want to be here with you, right now. There’s plenty of time to fool around later.”

Sherlock goes still, externally quiet yet still vibrating, somehow, in the way that John knows means he’s turning over something very important in his mind.

“Later,” Sherlock finally echoes, sounding… not quite skeptical but _uncertain,_ somehow.

“Yes,” John replies. “We have all kinds of later, now. Don’t we?”

“We do,” Sherlock says slowly, as if making a profound discovery. “We do. We absolutely do.”

“Yes,” John murmurs, kissing him again. Sherlock kisses him back, mouth soft and responsive, but John tell his brain is still whirring and clicking, still working through some delicate proceeding. 

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, when the moment stretches out just a bit too long. “Talk to me.”

“I just…” Sherlock trails off, sighs a bit, tries again. “This is wonderful. It is. But there isn’t...there’s still...It’s just that one orgasm doesn’t make everything magically better, you realise.”

The way he says it is not dismissive, nor sad, but rather matter of fact. 

“I know,” John replies. “I do. But I also know...” he pauses, considers how to best put his complicated thoughts into words. “This isn’t the end of the hard part. I know that. But I think we’ve survived the worst of it, made it through the roughest waters. It’s not the end, but it’s the end of the beginning. And maybe…maybe it’s overly optimistic, but I think maybe this is the beginning of everything else.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer right away, but John can almost hear him weighing his words carefully in his mind.

“The beginning of everything else,” he finally echoes, his eyes a clear aquamarine even in the low light, as his fingers come up to touch John’s face, trace the line of his jaw, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear in a gesture of pure heartbreaking tenderness. “I think...yes. I like that.”

“Me too,” John answers, his eyes suddenly stinging hot all over again. Unable to look directly at Sherlock a moment longer without dissolving into tears, John turns his head, presses a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder, tastes the concentrated salt of the drying sweat on his skin.

“I love you,” John whispers, fierce and pure in his devotion.

Sherlock presses his lips into the side of John’s head, just above his ear. 

“I love you, too,” he breathes softly into John’s hair.

Nothing left to say, the two of them lie together quietly, half drowsing as they cling to one another, the afternoon slipping inexorably into night.

As the shadows lengthen into twilight Sherlock stirs a little, shifting his weight a bit. His stomach gurgles, faint but loud enough for John to hear, and the noise jolts him into awareness that he’s starving as well. He exhales and props himself up on one elbow.

“Hungry?” John asks.

“A bit,” Sherlock replies, eyes still closed, hand wrapped around John’s waist, fingers pressing into the bit of flesh there. “But can we...can we just, stay here a bit longer? This is nice.”

“Of course, love,” John murmurs, allowing Sherlock to tug him back down into bed and curls himself against his longer frame, ignoring the minor hunger in his belly and the dry stickiness of his mouth, willing to abide any discomfort in order to give Sherlock everything he ever needs. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispers, tightening his arm around John’s waist, pulling him even closer.

Out of nowhere a sudden rush of breathtaking, crystal clear certainty washes over John. 

_We’re really going to be all right,_ he thinks, and this new awareness sparks a burst of bubbly almost-giddy joy inside him, the kind of joy he hadn’t allowed himself until this very moment of clarity, a wash of golden fizzy happiness like bubbles in champagne. 

_Oh, God, thank God, we’re going to get to keep this. We’re going to make it through all right._

On the heels of that thought comes another: John knows a few minutes from now they will spar goodnaturedly over who gets the loo first, and then they will head up the street, maybe go to that Turkish place Sherlock keeps mentioning, and there they will drink a bit too much raki and press their socked feet together under the table and grin stupidly at each other, obviously and profoundly in love and admitting it openly to each other for the very first time. Part of him -- a large part -- wants to leap out of bed and get started on that happy ending, begin fulfilling the promise of the rest of their lives as soon as possible.

“We will,” Sherlock says quietly, in answer to John’s unspoken thoughts, thoughts he must have somehow conveyed in some twitch of body language. “In a little bit, John, we will, but...let’s do this first, okay?”

“Yeah,” John murmurs in agreement, his voice a low affectionate hum as he pulls Sherlock even closer. “Lets.”

So they do this first. 

John and Sherlock hold each other, naked and twined together between the tangled sheets as night falls slowly, breathing each other’s breath as they bear silent witness to these first few moments, these first lines of a new chapter in a book full of promise, full of hope, full of the rest of their lives.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for "Your Perfect Offering" by CaitlinFairchild](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6685909) by [Hamstermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon)
  * [[Podfic] Your Perfect Offering](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13450035) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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